Vintage is Dead
by BrandiChampane
Summary: John's gone for weeks, leaving Dean to take care of Sam. He resorts to his own methods for money(prostitution). When the pressure becomes too much, he drops out of high school and wakes up to an angry John Winchester, which leads to him being thrown on the streets. Down on his luck, he meets Castiel Novak, a baker with horrible fashion sense and the ugliest house Dean has ever see
1. When the Walls Tumble Down

Dean does the same thing he does every morning, wakes Sammy up, makes them both breakfast (dry cereal, they are out of milk again), and walks them both to school. This morning, Sam is grouchy, does not want to relinquish his pillow, even after Dean pulls the covers off his bed and tosses them to the ground. Sam just shivers and curls into a ball, refusing to open his eyes. Dean flicks on the light and Sam grumbles again, finally pushing away from his mattress. His hair is pushed up on one side from sleeping on it and Dean laughs at him, then tosses him a clean shirt.

Dean watches Sam pull the shirt over his head and scours the bedroom floor for a close to clean pair of jeans. Dad would be mad if he saw the mess in their room, but he has been gone for days, weeks actually, so Dean does not worry. He kicks a few clothes out of the way and makes for the bathroom before Sam can get in. He can hear Sam yell from the other side of the door and laughs. In the mirror, he can see the faint tracings of a bruise, a reminder of why he hates high school. Dean does not wince when he presses two, cold, fingers to it this time. The blemish is healing well and maybe he will not have to explain it to Dad this time. He shakes the thought away and pulls his toothbrush from its resting place.

Sam smacks the door again, growing limbs rattling the doorframe. Dean really does not need another item on his list of things to fix so he yanks the door open and lets Sam brush his teeth beside him. Sam is almost as tall as he is now, growing much fast than Dean did at that age. He finds it strange to think of Sam growing up, losing his baby fat and turning into a man. He laughs at the idea, earning him a strange look from Sam, he ducks his head and spits into the sink. Dean claps Sam on the shoulder and maneuvers around him to leave the bathroom.

The kitchen is small with a barely-working stove and a humming refrigerator. Dean tried fixing them, but when John came home and saw him tinkering around them he was sworn away from electronics. John says he will electrocute himself, or worse burn the house down, that one stung a bit. He knew John did not mean it, but he felt it rot in his stomach like a decaying animal, ready to be picked away by the flies. They avoid talking about Mary, but some word choices can be painful reminders of the day she passed away. Dean opens a cabinet, the door teetering where it only hangs on one hinge now, and finds the cereal. Lucky Charms, Sammy's favorite. He shakes the box, there is barely enough for two bowls so he lets Sammy have it. He will steal Jo's breakfast at school, she will not mind, never does.

When Sam comes into the kitchen, Dean sits the box in front of him and watches him eat. Sam complains because he wants milk and the cereal makes his mouth dry, but Dean only has two bucks left and Dad never said when he would be home. Sam swallows down what he can and tucks what remains into the cabinet before grabbing his backpack and following Dean out the door. Dean chides at him to keep up, Sam may have long legs but he walks like a moping moose and school starts soon.

The sun has yet to raise, cool autumn air making them both shiver. Dean is a senior this year, and that does not make school any easier. In fact, he hates it even more, the extra work, added pressure of college, on top of watching out for pricks who want to pick a fight at every corner. He knows he and Sam were never raised with the same luxuries as some kids, but he sure, as shit is not going to let anyone tell him he is a less person because of it. Sam is falling behind again so Dean tugs at his sleeve, making him skip up to his pace. Sam pulls his sleeve back and shoots a glare in Dean's direction.

"Would you quit dragging your feet Sam, you're gonna make us late."

"Not like you care anyways, Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam rolls his eyes, but thankfully picks up his pace. Dean really does not like school, but Sam does and he is good at it. He gets good grades in every subject and even likes some of them. Dean is lucky he advanced this year, if not for Sam helping him with his homework he probably never would have made it. Dean knows he is not as smart as other kids are, knows he probably will not be going to college, instead recruiting to help his Dad on his sales outings, but he hates thinking he is a bad role model for Sam. He is big brother, the one that is supposed to set the examples and teach, not the other way around.

Before Dean and Sam can round the corner to the school, a sleek black car glides past them and Dean waits a heartbeat for the bashing that is coming their way. Instead, Crowley, a rich kid with too much time on his hands, rolls down the window, winks and blows a kiss in their direction. Dean is thankful for being spared total bullshit before the first bell even rings, he still hates Crowley though. The guy is always walking around, flaunting himself like he is nobility and makes Dean want to choke him with his cashmere tie. Fortunately, he has a little dirt on the guy, promises himself he will use it if Crowley pulls one of his stunts on him or Sammy, so Crowley keeps at bay mostly. Hell, he would feel bad for him if he were not such a dick.

Sam scoffs under his breath and speeds up his pace, eager to get into the building with teachers and principals swarming around before one of these power hungry guys can get a hand on him. Dean stays close, fighting the itch to throw an arm over his younger brother and keep him close, away from everyone. Sam has been bullied since middle school, Dean thinks it is the long hair, but that does not mean he deserves it. He is the only one allowed to pick on Sammy, at least then he knows there is no harm. Sam ducks his head and starts avoiding eye contact with people and it pisses Dean off because his brother should not be this defenseless considering he is the one that taught him to throw a punch. Sam becomes so closed off around everyone, like if he bends his spine enough he will disappear.

Dean glares at any potential targets, none in the general vicinity, which lets Dean, breathe easy. He would hate to get detention first thing in the morning, Monday's are Victor's day and he has a penchant for wanting to kick Dean's ass. He always wants to harp Dean about his grades, says he needs to get his act together if he wants to get into a good school. Victor is just another person reminding Dean of how worthless he really is. Sam and Dean reach their lockers so Dean finally says goodbye to his brother and slips him their last two dollars for lunch.

As much as Dean hates grammar rules, he is glad when he can sit in his third period English class and write in his notebook. Each Monday, they have to journal, sometimes they can write whatever they want, other times they receive a prompt. Dean likes the prompts better, feels less compelled to spill everything he is really feeling. Today is not a prompt day. Instead, Mr. Singer wants them to write about their weekends. Dean spent his watching Sammy do homework and trying to hustle a few guys for grocery money (which he blew in one trip to the store), he does not want to write about that.

He elects to make up a story about him and Sam finding some park and shooting hoops all day. When they are both good and tired, they walk down to the local ice cream stand and Dean buys Sam a smoothie, because he is health conscious and that seems like something he would get. Dean gets a banana split with extra chocolate drizzled on top. His mouth begins to water so he starts thinking of something else to write about. Next, he and Sammy stumble upon a magic bag of money- no too unrealistic, Dean scratches out the next line. Next, he and Sammy return to their home, a two-floor classic with shutters on the windows and a freshly mown lawn. Mom makes them dinner, which is ready in time for Dad when he comes home from his desk job. They eat, talk about their days, and Dean and Sam retreat to their own rooms for sleep.

Dean is pleased with his story by the time the bell rings, so much so, he nearly misses the tone signaling the end of class and ends up a minute late for his next class. Math is worth missing, in his opinion, so he is not worried. The rest of his classes drag on insufferably and he fights himself not to leave. Finally, the lunch bell rings, he makes a break for the door and speed walks to the cafeteria. If he moves quickly enough, he can avoid the traffic of human bodies racing to get to their next classes.

Jo is at the table, biting a French fry while balancing a chemistry book in her other hand. Dean walks up behind her, examines the page then shuts the book with a quick swipe of his hand. She scoffs but does not make a move to open the book again elects to return to eating her lunch instead. Dean takes the seat beside her and watches people weave around each other like schools of fish searching for hiding places. Everyone moves as if they are programmed, knowing just where to go and letting their feet take over. Some bump into each other and roll their eyes before returning to their travel.

Dean thinks it is humorous the way students get this code embedded in their brains that bells are the most important sounds in their lives. Nothing can detour them from their fast track to success in the bleak halls of Kripke High. Then there are the ones that try to fit themselves into this mold, this fashion, that no one wants to squeeze into but contort themselves into anyways. They are bending backwards to keep friends they do not even like and Dean hates it, hates how the ones that have earned some ungrateful social status act as if they are gods. He wonders how they live with it, pretending, just to keep a friend in high ranks when they can cut ties, become something more solid, stable.

Jo snaps her fingers and brings Dean back to earth. He breathes a sigh and picks at her half eaten hamburger, sliding a cold pickle into his mouth before biting into the meat. She starts to complain but reels it back since she still has fries to eat anyways. Dean traces the raised letters of her chemistry book with his free hand, enjoying the smooth glide under his fingers.

"You still want to major in chemistry?"

"That's the plan," she says, reopening the cover, forcing him to retreat his hand."You know what you want to do yet?" Her voice is calmer now, face turned away, like if she shows too much interest she will drive him away, scare him with just her words.

"I don't know yet." He swallows down the rest of his, rather her, burger and wipes his hands on a napkin. "Besides, Sammy's the brainy one, got his future mapped out already." His smile is full of pride.

"Yeah, you're smart too you know. Dumb people don't read Vonnegut."

"Anyone can read Vonnegut if they know how," he says, lining up his napkin, now folded into the shape of a triangle.

"You know what I mean, you dweeb." She holds her hand in the shape of a goal, which Dean knocks the paper football through perfectly, hitting her on the nose. She wipes it with the back of her hand and flicks the napkin back at him.

"I think I'm just going to work with Dad, get into the sales business or something." He lines up another shot.

That has been his plan all along. Sophomore year of high school was the tipping point, after failing three classes he knew he could not cut it. Summer school killed his free time, making him unable to watch Sammy, which made Dad angry. He knew school just slowed him down, elected to follow his Dad with whatever he does when he is gone. Dad says it is sales, but Dean has never heard about a product yet, or a revenue. His dad leaves and comes back with money though. Good enough for Dean. Jo drops her fingers and huffs an agitated sigh, Dean knew she would be upset. Always going on about how Dean can make decisions for himself, do something he actually enjoys.

"Dean! I thought you were going to at least try to find something you enjoy."

"I did," he flicks the paper football and it skitters, tumbling to the floor.

"Winchester," Dean holds up a hand, deflecting her scowl and covering his face at the same time.

The bell rings and Dean takes the opportunity to shove a few fries into his mouth and race to his next class.

A few voices, a cacophony to Dean's ears, ring from the bathroom walls and he can feel the sweat bead on his brow. He knows these guys, Gordon Walker and a few of his friends Dean cannot name, but knows by face. Knows to avoid them. They are laughing about something; he can hear someone tumble into the stall beside him, making him pull his pants into place in case they decide they want to open his stall. He thinks if he is completely still; quiet, that they will leave without bothering him.

Dean is a fighter, trained by his dad when he was young. John taught both him and Sam how to defend their selves the first time Dean came home with a new bruise and a split lip. These guys, these animals, though, they play dirty and Dean does not like it. He would rather sit in this stall all day if it meant avoiding them. The stall beside him shakes again and Dean has to claw into his jeans when he hears it because every nerve ending is telling him to man up and help this poor kid. He can see the backs of the kid's sneakers and panics because what if Gordon can see his. He can feel his lungs seizing, trapping between wanting to pull his knees up to his chest and not wanting them to catch his movement.

"Little prick tried to hit me," another hit against the wall. "Cute, think you're real cute don't you Winchester."

Dean's lungs collapse and fill with his own bile because he is sure they cannot see him in the stall. That either means they knew he would be here or Sammy's the one on the other side of the stall, probably plucked from the sea of students on his way to class. Dean's stomach rolls and he squeezes his hands into fists, presses them against his temple. If he just breathes, fucking breathes already, he can do this. Sammy's out there and he just needs to run out, grab him, and get out of the bathroom before any of them can stop him. It sounds so easy worded like that, just a fluid movement of grabbing Sammy and running in his head.

Dean's legs wobble, suddenly jell-o replaces his bones and he cannot figure out how to walk properly. He braces himself against the door to his stall and inhales. He unlatches the door, the creak of the lock echoing through the small facility making him cringe and grit his teeth. Just grab Sammy and go, he tells himself. Before Dean can even get the door all the way open, one of Gordon's guys has him pushed against the wall opposite Sam. He can see Sam, long legs barely touching the floor as another of Gordon's guys holds him against the stall. He is breathing heavy, nose dripping blood and knuckles split.

Dean thrashes against the senior holding him, tries to get some leverage against him. He pushes against the tile wall with one foot and presses his knee against him. He only succeeds in budging the guy by a few inches before Gordon kicks him in the side of his shin. He screams out, holding back as tears burn the back of his eyes and digs his nails into his palms. The guy holding him snickers and pushes against him harder. Dean can feel the chill of the tile on his back and tries to focus on that instead of the way his knee burns. He is muttering curses under his breath trying to think of some way to get out of this stupid corner he is boxed in.

Sam screams something at the guy holding him and wriggles against the door. When Gordon turns to him with a smirk, rolling up his sleeves, Sam advances his movement. He gets a hand free and starts clawing at the guy holding him, leaving marks one the guys arms. Dean tries to do the same, kicks at the guys gut with his good leg and manages to get some sort of reaction out of him. He loses his hold on Dean so Dean tries to wriggle from behind his arm to get to Sam. Gordon rounds on him and lays a blow to Dean's nose and he cannot ignore the way it burns, cupping his face in both hands, blood trickling onto his hands. While he is doubled over, Gordon kicks his bad shin and Dean's legs buckle. The scream escapes his mouth before he can stop it.

Sam is screaming and cursing, Dean can hear slap of skin on skin but the tears stinging his eyes make it hard to see. Gordon kicks him in the rib, now Dean really cannot stand, his own arms wrapped around his waist, as blood trickles down, spilling over his lips. It is a bitter taste but Dean cannot wrench his hands from his flannel to wipe it away. He coughs and tries to get some air back into his lungs, chest burning when he does. Gordon laughs from somewhere above Dean and he can hear the slap of skin on skin again, this time Sam is the one grunting and crying out.

The senior that was holding Sam before now yanks Dean by the back of his shirt until he is lying on his back. The back of his head smacks against the tile floor, which causes him to see white for a moment. His head hurts and he cannot find the will to move, eyes refusing to open. The sound of something snapping, followed by a high-pitched wail makes him jump into action. He pulls to his feet slowly, head swimming with the feeling. He tries to shake it off but that just makes the colors swirl, stalls blending into toilets, clashing with sinks.

Dean gets a grip on Gordon's shirt, yanks him back, Gordon trips over his own feet, and falls to the tile, gasping as he does. Sam is sitting slumped against the toilet holding his arm; tears are streaming down his face, sobs wracking his small frame. Dean gets a grip around his waist and helps pull him to his feet, he fights it at first, not wanting to be touched. Dean gets it, his arm is definitely broken if the way it hangs so limp is anything to go by, but they need to get out of there before Gordon gets on his feet again.

"Sammy, c'mon, get off your ass," Sam scrambles to his feet and Dean ushers him to the bathroom door, pushing him out ahead of him. He starts to follow him, but one of Gordon's guys gets a good handful of his hair. Sam starts to turn back, but Dean shakes his head, Sammy needs to go somewhere and get his arm braced. Dean winces when the hand on his scalp tightens, feels his hair tug and pull until he is behind the closed door of the bathroom again.

Dean sits in the principal's chair and picks at the wood of one of the armrests. Every part of him burns and aches and he would rather be sitting in math than be sitting in front of the principal. She arches her fingers, the tips pressed together, as she asses the report in front of her. All of the times Dean has been brought in this room rests, compiled, in a manila folder, times new roman, double-spaced, printed and ready. Dean brushes a chipped piece of wood the floor and traces its movements until it lands on the carpet, indiscernible amongst the pattern. He watches the clock and counts the ticks until the minute hand moves again.

"Dean," she starts.

"Naomi," she grimaces at the use of her first name.

"What can we do to prevent these meetings?" Her voice is caring but her eyes are hard.

"Expel Gordon, maybe. For starters. Maybe you can prevent another freshman from having their arm broken, who knows." He knows he is being smug for someone riding a fine line but Gordon has been kicking his and Sammy's asses since day one and it is about time someone did something.

"Gordon says _you_ are the one who started all this."

"Yeah, well that's a lie."

After Sam ran off, Gordon had his guys hold him down as he beat the shit out of him. It was as if every bone in his bone was breaking simultaneously, while remaining intact all at once. Gordon knew just how to kick and hit to leave bruises and sore muscles. The worst part was Dean just took it, in too much pain to move and fight back. Sam was out of the line of fire and that is what is important. After what felt like an eternity of Dean getting his ass handed to him, Sam came running back with the principal, assistant principal and the school's security guard, an out of commission cop, just strong enough to break up fights and restrain students if need be. He was the one to pull Gordon off him, bring him to his feet, and practically carry him to the nurse's office. No serious injuries, just going to be feeling awful for a few weeks, should probably have his knee looked at.

"You understand my situation, though."

"What, that you're too blind to notice a pattern. Too caught up to see that every time this happens, Sam and I are the ones who end up broken and bloody while Gordon gets off clean."

"Until we have an eye witness, it's a matter of he said, she said Dean. It happened in the bathroom, where there are no cameras to check, no teachers monitoring. Without definite proof that he has been the one doing the harassing, along with the evidence that you struck back, all of the parties involved will be given suspension, Sam too."

"This is bullshit," Dean says under his breath. It is the same situation every time. Sam and Dean earn a new injury accompanied by a mark against their records.

"I understand you are upset." She shuffles the papers back into the folder and lines them up against her desk before moving it to the side. "We need to speak with your father, we tried calling the landline but it's disconnected."

"Why does he need to be involved all of a sudden?" The school's policies have always been clear, students get their punishment and serve them. As long as the students show up, parents do not need to be involved.

"With Sam's injury, the situation is different. We're calling Gordon's parents as well and informing them of the state Sam was left in as a result of the dispute." She flattens her palms on the desk and leans in. "Sam's arms is broken Dean, we just need to call your dad and let him know what hospital he is at so he can be picked up."

"I'll get him."

"Dean, that's not how this works."

"As far as I see it, I'm suspended effective immediately. That means I can leave right, go get him."

Naomi sighs and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She pulls a new folder on to her desk and picks out a piece of paper, then puts the folder back. She finds another one and plucks it from her filling cabinet, reads it over, and tucks the paper and file away again. A pen is pushed towards Dean along with the paper.

"You know this part, sign the paper, we file it, add it to your record and you must stay off of school property for as long as we say. Your emergency forms never listed a hospital, which means Sam is going to be at one of the schools choosing. I'll have to talk to the nurse and figure that out, you stay here until I return." She pats Dean's shoulder and leaves the room.

Dean stares at the paper, all too familiar with the format. He knows just where to sign, knows the usual amount of days he will have to stay home. Knows how many days he will have to make up assignments for later, catching up without notes or power point presentations to guide the way. He smoothes a hand over his jaw and wonders when he will start to grow facial hair. His knuckles and face hurt and he is ready to go home and press an ice pack to them. He signs his name on the dotted line and tosses the pen, pushing the paper across the desk with it.

Now he has to try to find this hospital to get Sammy. He wonders how long Sam has to stay home and hopes he will not have to miss too much work. Knowing him, Sam probably asked for all his assignments ahead of time and the school will have someone assigned to take notes for him. Dean is just going to be further behind, but maybe he can get a start on some of the chores before John gets home. He should look into some quick jobs for some food money, maybe hit the bar and do some swindling.

Naomi comes back with the papers with a look on her face that Dean does not like. He braces himself for whatever she has to say next.

"I have the name of the hospital but Dean," she sits in her chair and folds her hands together. "You and your brother are still minors. While you may be able to pick him up this time, we still need to get a hold of a guardian. We need to know someone is looking after him."

"Dad works late, I look after him while he's away."

"You're a student."

"So?"

"So, as a minor and a student you do not count as a guardian. Dean, why can't you just call your father for us so we can speak to him about this?"

Because Dean does not know where he is. "Sorry, can't afford a cell phone, work doesn't exactly accept personal calls either, you know the drill."

Naomi rolls her eyes and scribbles something on a note pad. "This is the hospital," Dean reaches for the paper, but Naomi's grip tightens. "I need to speak to him Dean, soon." She lets go and Dean nods.

Dean has to wait for Sam in the lobby. They had to take x-rays and Dean wonders how John is going to pay for the medical bills, speculates if being a salesperson gets someone health insurance. He is reading an outdated magazine, mostly looking at the pictures and smelling perfumes as he waits. A few nurses cast him glances, but otherwise he is unbothered. Sam comes out a while later, cast and sling with him. The doctor hands him something and ushers him out, says a few words that Dean cannot hear. He tries to focus on the words of some article while he waits for them to finish talking.

Sam knocks the magazine out of his hand, laughing as it flops to the floor. Dean would laugh too if it was not for the fact that he was so damn worried. He never in his life heard Sam scream like he did in that bathroom, and now he is standing in front of him laughing. Suspended from school too, to beat it all. Dean picks the magazine up and tosses it on the table before returning his attention to Sam.

"What's got you in such a good mood?"

"They got me on something for the pain. I think it's messing with my head." He flaps the paper in his hand. "I get a prescription for now." He says and hands the paper to Dean.

Dean eyes it before slipping it into his pocket.

"It still hurt?"

"Like a bitch, but the medicine helps." Dean stands and tousles his hair, Sam ducks out of his reach.

"Come on. Let's get home before it gets dark."

The walk home is longer, but thankfully, their neighborhood is small. Dean does not feel the need to watch over his shoulder every second, not like in some other towns John has stopped at. This one is quaint, some bad eggs here and there, but nothing too serious or dangerous.

When they get home, Dean heats up some canned soup and they eat dinner together while Sam studies from one of his textbooks. They are low on supplies, a few cans of soup left and a frozen bag of peas. They have half a loaf of bread and some peanut butter for lunches, and tap water to drink.

"The school wants to talk to dad," Dean finally says.

"Shit, do they really?"

"Yeah, say it's 'cause your arm got broken."

"Dad's gonna be pissed if we have to call him."

"I know," Dean turns on the sink and starts washing their dishes, looking for something to keep him occupied.

"So what are you going to do?"

"Nothing."

"What do you mean nothing, if they don't hear from him it's just gonna get worse."

"Better than him throwing a shit storm. Listen, we keep up that Dad's at work, busy working late shifts until the suspension is over. Gives us about a week for him to get back and if he isn't home by then, we call him."

Sam closes his book and leans back in his chair. "Fine."

"Good, now clean the room up and get to bed. You're going to want to rest after today. I'll fill your prescription tomorrow." Sam nods and slides his book into his backpack.

"What about you?" He asks, starting towards the bedroom.

"I'm going to clean the living room up first, make a list of things we need before I head out tomorrow."

"Not what I meant. You look like shit Dean."

"Yeah and you're not miss centerfold yourself pipsqueak," he lays the dishes out to dry and turns to face Sam.

"Don't be an ass," Sam goes into the room and Dean can hear the bed creak.

By the time Dean has the living room cleaned, Sam is asleep. The pills must be good because he hardly even budges when Dean turns on the lights and starts shoving clothes into a bag so he can wash them later. He gets most of it straightened up and decides to vacuum tomorrow. When Dean throws on a jacket and turns out the light, Sam still does not move. Dean steps out of the room and, quietly, shuts the door. He steps out of the front door and locks it behind him before turning down the street.

Crowley's house is close by, close enough to walk to alone at night without worrying. Dean steps up the concrete staircase to their porch and taps his knuckles against the door and cringing at how sore they are. He probably should come back another time but Sam needs his prescription filled meaning they need money. Dean has to take his opportunities while Sam is asleep, not wanting to rouse suspicion. If he is lucky, Crowley will be awake and he can get this over with tonight. A light turns on in the living room and he steps back on the porch, putting space between him and the door.

"Winchester, what a surprise," Crowley drawls from the other side of the door.

"Whatever, I need to talk to your dad."

"Alistair is with my mom at the moment, no can do buddy boy." Dean squints and rolls that through his head.

"When is he going to be back?"

"Not until late I'm afraid, it's their anniversary tonight and I'm sure he doesn't want to spend it with you." Dean can feel his eyes scan his body and ducks his head.

"Just, Sammy broke his arm and we need some money," he finally spits out.

"Well that's just a perfect, a whore looking for some money."

"I'm not a whore." Dean spits at the ground. He does this because he needs to, not because he gets pleasure out of spending time with Alistair. Now, he needs the cash more than ever.

"Well, can't help you," Crowley bites out and begins to shut the door.

"Wait, seriously I need this!" Dean forces his foot in the door and wiggles a shoulder through.

Crowley rolls his eyes and pulls the door back again. "A begging whore," Crowley mutters under his breath. "What's in it for me?"

"Jack shit," Dean shrugs and Crowley begins to shut the door again. Dean stops it before it can be closed and leans into Crowley's personal space.

"I won't tell your mom you're Daddy is a pedophile and has been messing with the Winchester boy down the street ever since he rolled into town," Dean whispers.

Crowley's face is red with anger as he throws the door back and moves to the side.

"They'll be back at midnight. I'll tell my mom you're spending the night. Please for the love of God, do not bother me until they get here. You can watch T.V. in my room, I'll be working on my essay." Crowley looks him in the eye. "You ever call Alastair that again and I'll have Gordon rip you a new one." Dean smirks and hops the stairs to Crowley's room.

Crowley calls his parents while Dean watches T.V. and prepares himself for the night. He only comes here when he needs too, usually when they run out of money and John is gone too long. Now, they are out of money and Sam needs his prescription filled. They have a medical bill coming in the mail, Dean is sure, and they are behind on a few payments. If he can get enough for a few meals and a bottle of pills tonight, Dean thinks it is worth it. He sits on Crowley's floor and rests his head against the bed, Crowley does not let him on any of his furniture when he comes over, and he is not allowed to speak. He just sits and stares at the monitor checking the clock every five minutes.

When Dean started this, he thought it would be a onetime deal. They were out of money and Dean was down on his luck when it came to gambling. Honestly, he was never good at it to start with. Alastair had watched him from the bar, laughed when Dean got a bad hit, and had to hand over his winnings. Dean, fed up and frustrated, called him on it. Alastair got pissed, started calling him boy and demanding respect. Dean was itching for a fight but when they got into the alley, Alastair had other plans, tossed a few dollars at Dean when he was done and left.

Dean kept showing up at the bar because they were always running low on cash, even when Dad was home. Sometimes they just were unable to keep up with payments and Dean had to hustle to make ends meet. He still sucked though, so eventually Alastair struck a deal with him. Dean comes to him when he needs to, but he has to work for it. Something about his wife not cutting it and Dean being right for it was thrown around but Dean did not care, he still got payed and that is what mattered. Nothing about it feels right but he does what he has to.

The sound of the garage opening tells both Dean and Crowley that Alastair is home. Crowley rolls his eyes when Dean eyes the door eagerly, he wants to feel ashamed but he is ready to get this over. Alastair and his wife patter around in the kitchen, Dean can hear them from the bedroom. He turns the volume down a bit, as they start their way up the stairs. Crowley shuts his computer off and climbs into bed, pulling the sheets over himself. Dean is sure he is not going to sleep. Crowley's mom opens the door and wiggles her fingers at Dean, checking to see that Crowley is asleep. Dean can barely hear her as she whispers.

"I can set the couch for you if you're tired." He feigns a yawn and nods. There is too much anxiety buzzing inside of him for him to be tired.

When he steps into the light of the hallway, she makes a noise and places a palm on her chest. She looks almost scandalized and Dean remembers the bruises he has. She cups his face and turns it from side to side, inspecting the marks. Dean hates that she is so nice when he remembers what he does while she sleeps. He hisses when she brushes a thumb over the bruise on his eye.

"Sorry," she whispers. Dean shrugs and follows her down stairs.

A couch is in the den that Dean usually sleeps on, when he stays over. He will wait down there until Alastair comes creeping in and locks the door. When he is done and has his money, he will sneak out and slip back into his own house before Sam can wake up. Sam knows he goes out and makes money somehow but he just leaves it at hustling for now, no reason to scar Sam. Crowley's mom grabs a blanket from the hall closet and ushers Dean into the den. She drops the blanket on the couch and tosses him a pillow before retreating upstairs.

The room is quiet for a long time, Dean stares at the ceiling under the blanket and counts out the seconds, then the minutes before he hears a door open upstairs. A few stairs creek when stepped on in the wrong spot and Dean cringes at each one. The nerves are swimming in his stomach and he tries to anticipate what Alastair will want in exchange for money this time. Normally he gets off with a blowjob, which is easy. He can close his eyes and pretend he is somewhere else. He is asking for more tonight, though, and thinks he knows what is coming.

Alastair pulls him off the couch, catching him off guard, and Dean drops to the floor with a thud. He muffles his own complaint and gets up, brushing himself off. Alastair already looks pissed and Dean knows he should just get to it.

"How much this time?"

"Enough for food, a prescription, and maybe a few utilities." He drops his head and focuses on the floor.

"Shit, prescription for what? You go and catch something, you little cunt?"

"No," Dean quickly defends. The only person he has been with is Alastair. "It's Sam, he broke his arm and needs some pills for the pain. Medical bills too, but my dad can take care of it."

"How long has daddy been gone?" Alastair asks, already stripping out of his pants.

"A week or two, we don't know when he's coming back this time."

"Still think he's just doing sales?"

"I don't know anymore." Dean nearly chokes on the words. He hates thinking of his dad as a liar, hates admitting it in front of Alastair even more, but this is unusual for them.

"Get on your knees," Alastair says, stepping out of his boxers.

Dean falls ungracefully and winces when his bad knee hits the ground.

"What do you want this time?"

"On your hands, arch your back a little." Alastair walks behind him and pushes on his spine a little.

Dean bites back a complaint, hates it when Alastair touches him as if he owns him. When Alastair begins to slide his boxers down his hips, Dean closes his eyes and pretends he is somewhere else. If he focuses hard enough, he can meditate, get lost in some make believe world. It helps that Alastair likes him quiet, he can zone out without worrying about offending him.

Dean did not find out that Alastair was Crowley's dad until he was forced to stay late at school for the first time and saw him picked up. Alastair spotted him right away, tried to duck into his car as Crowley made his slow decent to the car. Dean tried not to look, it all felt so real when he saw him like that, outside of the bar. After that, they stopped meeting in alley's and hotels and Dean started showing up at Crowley's on weekends his mom was away, uninvited. Crowley caught on quick, but never said anything. Never knew how probably. He will still fuss about it, taunt Dean, but he never talks shit about his dad, not once.

Dean finds it harder to distract himself when Alastair finally presses fingers inside of him. He takes a minute to catch his breath and find his train of thought again. While Alastair works, Dean thinks up something quick. He squeezes his eyes shut and pictures an empty field somewhere in bum fuck he does not care. The field has a cool breeze and smells like freshly mown grass. Dean tries to get lost in his senses, feels the grass under his palm, almost as if it is real. As Alastair slides in, he pictures a swing set somewhere down a path. He sits on it and pumps his legs until he is flying through the air, free of limitations. Sam is in the field playing with a golden retriever. The dog is almost as large as Sam's body, but she is nice and rolls in the grass, tongue hanging out of her mouth. While Sam rubs the dog's belly, Dean takes a stroll further down the path and dips his foot into a lake when Alastair comes.

The illusion is ruined when Alastair grunts into his back. He pulls out and Dean pulls his boxers back up. Alastair does the same and pulls out his wallet; he roots around a while until he finds a couple of large bills and drops them on the floor next to Dean. Dean grabs them and looks up to thank him, his jaw nearly dislocates when he sees her.

"Shit," his voice is pitched with puberty, cracking against his will.

"It's just a little more than normal, don't do making a scene boy."

"No, shit," Dean says, nodding in her direction. He can feel himself drowning in shame.

Alastair turns around and Dean can practically feel the tension. Alastair's wife is standing in the doorway with a hand over her mouth, the other clutched over a glass of water. Her eyes are wide, body stiff. Dean should leave, knows he should get out before it gets ugly but his legs are like concrete and he cannot find his pants.

"I just wanted some water and I heard a noise," she squeaks out, muffled by her palm.

Alastair grabs Dean by the hair, still sore from earlier, Dean hisses and tries to move away, but his grip only gets tighter. He pulls Dean up, shoves his pants into his hands, and drags him, by the hair to the front door. Dean wants to say something, wonders if he should, but the words are trapped in his throat. Alastair hurriedly opens the door and shoves Dean out into the cold night, still in his boxers.

"Don't come back," with that, he tosses a few more bills at Dean before shutting the door and locking it.

At first, Dean just stands there staring at the door. They have been doing this night after night and he never really thought they would be caught. Before the wind can steal them, Dean picks up the bills and shoves them into his pocket before pulling his pants back on. He runs a hand through his hair, his scalp is still sore and the pain is enough to stop the thoughts racing through his mind.

"Shit!"


	2. Out on My Own

Dean quietly slides in through the front door, shuts it and sets the lock. His legs give into the need to collapse, sliding underneath him until he is sitting against the front door. Sam will be sleeping for a few more hours, he is glad, does not think he can move if he needed to. He scrubs a hand over his jaw, picks at a healing cut on his cheek. Dean has enough money in his pocket to last them a week, he can buy groceries, Sammy's pills, and maybe pay off the water bill. Dean counts and recounts the dollars as if he cannot figure out the numbers, simple counting seems like a complicated algorithm so Dean gives up, eventually, and shoves the bills back into his pocket. When the sun rises, he will walk to the store, drop the laundry off on the way, and change it over on his way home. He might even have time to make Sammy lunch before he has to go back and pick it up.

Dean should feel relieved that he is going to be able to eat, but he the underlying panic is slowly creeping through him. He just lost his one source of income, no matter how much he hated it or hated Alastair, it was good money and Dean barely had to lift a finger for it. He could stay up a little late, go out, be back in an hour, and have a good sleep before taking Sam to school the next morning. Now, he does not even know if the cops are going to show up and start asking questions, he hopes they stay away. The last thing Dean and Sam need in their lives is a cop with a small paycheck and a short temper. Plus, with Dad away so frequently, it could mean the two of them being sent to a foster home and Dean's heard so many stories, that is the last situation he wants to be stuck in.

Dean pulls his knees to his chest and lays his head on them, trying to keep the nagging fear, crawling through his chest, at bay. He should call Dad. Make up whatever excuse he can for why they need him. With all that has happened, Dean needs someone to take over and start calling the shots because he is just making a bigger mess than he started with. John would be angry, though, especially with Sam's broken arm. Dean was supposed to protect him, keep him safe, if he cannot do that right, well, John is going to be angry, that much Dean knows. He digs his nails into his tender palms and squeezes until he thinks he will break skin. Dean needs to do figure out a plan, keep himself from sinking further.

Dean pushes away from the wall, up onto his unwilling legs and moves into the kitchen. He begins taking inventory of the what they need, writing it out on a notepad, his hands are shaking and the words tilt with the rest of his world. Dean traces and retraces over each letter of each word and tries to push the lingering thoughts away. They come, one after the other like blows from a cannon, landing squarely in his already tender stomach. An army of, _worthless whore _and _filthy cum slut _and Dean does not know when the dam breaks and water begins spilling, droplets smudging the words he is still retracing. He can hear John's voice calling him a disappointment. Dean digs the pen tip into the pad of the paper and makes a hole where it penetrates. His body wracks with the sobs, continuing to spill no matter how hard he tries to stop them.

Finally, Dean can breathe again, gaining control over himself and quickly reeling the emotions in, quelling them. Dean severs the paper from the notepad and shoves it into his pocket. He needs to shower, he should shower, he will feel better he is sure. Dean toes his shoes off and leaves them beside the counter in the kitchen. Sam is still asleep when he enters the bedroom, so he tries to keep his feet light, taking wide steps to his duffle bag, hidden beneath his bed. Dean pulls it out and opens the inside pocket, slipping his money inside and zipping it up again. The boy grabs a clean shirt from the foot of his bed and a clean pair of boxers from his duffle. He wonders if he should sleep first, but even though his eyes are sore, they refuse to close.

After Dean makes his way to the grocery store, he returns to the Laundromat and switches the clothes over into the dryer. They take about an hour to finish and that gives him plenty of time to go home, make lunch and rest his feet. Sam was still asleep when he left, Dean found it odd that he was not awake before noon, but yesterday probably took his energy from him. He decided to let him rest in order to finish chores and resolved to wake him for lunch if he was still asleep by them.

Dean still has yet to sleep, he can feel to need to curl under his sheets weighing on him but the lingering panic, the feeling that keeps telling him to run, to get out before his problems can catch him, keeps him alert. Dean's been twitchy like this before, when Dad went missing for a month years ago, only to return without a single cent saying his new product was a failure. Another time when he first stepped into this towns bar, the first day Alastair forced him to his knees. Dean swallows the lump in his throat and continues shoving clothes into the dryer and forces quarters into the slot. The machine has a dull hum as Dean packs up his detergent and duffle bag.

The walk home is a small comfort, Dean can lose himself in the scenery, the Betty Crocker homes with their white picket fences that Dean sometimes wishes he lived in. Nothing too fancy, just his own bedroom and no lingering thoughts of the next time he will have to pack his bag in a hurry because Dad pissed off another bar tender or because he has a new set of debts to run from. Dean can picture Sammy throwing a baseball with him on the lawn, just lazy tossing and catching until Mary brings them in for lemonade and pie. Dean misses her pies the most. He crosses the road and steps up onto the devil strip of the next sidewalk, nearly tripping over a tree stump in the ground.

Their yard would have trees, all surrounding one large one. Dad would help Dean fashion planks into a tree house, it would be their summer project and when they are done Sam will help them paint. Dean will let Sam hang out with his friends in the tree house, and kick him out when he brings girls home. Girls, Dean laughs, when was the last time he was with a girl anyways? He kicks a rock and watches it skitter into the road then tumble into a sewer drain. Dean's not gay, he knows that, after Lisa Braden bent over in gym one day, making him sport a woody he knew his sexuality was intact. On occasions though, when he blocks out Alastair good enough, the burn turning into something pleasant, he finds he enjoys bent over and full. Always regrets it though, maybe if it was with someone else, he thinks, he could enjoy it better.

Dean turns the corner that leads to the driveway of the complex him and Sammy are staying in. No sign of the Impala so Dean knows Dad is still gone. Not ready to add another day to the list, he resolves to wait until midnight to start worrying. For now, he needs to feed Sam and make sure he takes it easy today. Sam is going to need all of his energy when he goes back to school on Monday and has to deal with Gordon's shit trash talk, along with a good dose of self-restraint. That is what always leads Sam into trouble; he wants to fight and defend himself, knowing he is still too small, too weak, to really have an effect. He may have gangly limbs that stretch longer than Deans do, but they are still un-toned, soft with adolescence. Dean has little room to judge, God knows he will pick a fight with a giant just to prove a point.

Sam is still asleep when Dean walks into the room. He throws his jacket onto his bed, shakes Sam's shoulder, of his good arm, and repeats his name. Sam takes a while to return to consciousness, eyes still closed as he bats Dean's hand away

"I'm wake," he mutters, speech still confused in a sleepy haze.

"How are you feeling?" Dean asks, rolling Sam onto his back.

The swelling under his eyes has gone down, but there are dark bruises there now. His lips split in a few places and there is a bruise forming on the bridge of his nose. Sam's knuckles are bruised and raw from fighting back and a couple more bruises dot his arms. Dean inspects them all, tallies them all up to the number of times he fucked up that day. Sam covers his, still shut, eyes with his good hand and groans.

"My face hurts."

"Yeah it hurts me too," Dean laughs. Sam groans again.

"My arm hurts, too." Dean picks the pill bottle out of his pocket and tosses it onto Sam's chest.

"You got enough to last you a few weeks. Take them no more than once a day, with food. I'm going to make lunch now, so how about you come out and eat then you can take those and go back to sleep." Sam nods and pushes the covers off his chest, grabbing the pills before they fall to the floor.

Dean prepares them both fried bologna sandwiches, extra bologna on his and lettuce on Sam's. The taste is a little less than desirable, but it is cheap and fills them both enough so Dean brushes away his complaints. With the oven broken and the stove barely working, they cannot do any fancier. Sam complains while he eats, reminds Dean to get mustard next time he goes out. Dean takes note and swallows the rest of his sandwich a little too quickly. The food sits heavy in his stomach but for the first time in a few days, he is full. Sam swallows a pill but does not retreat to the bedroom; instead, he pulls out a textbook and flips to a page. Grabbing his notebook next, he begins to write notes on what he is reading, something about civil war history, Dean observes.

"Thought you were gonna sleep?"

"Yeah, I have some studying I want to do first."

"We're suspended Sam, it's not like you're going to be taking a quiz any time soon."

"Well, I want to at least pretend I'm doing something. Just because I got banned from school property doesn't mean I can't try to get good grades," he says the last part a little under his breath.

"Fine, but after dinner it's straight to bed."

Dean stands out of his chair and curses when he accidentally puts too much weight on his bad leg. Sam begins to laugh and catches himself.

"You should get that checked, you know. Gordon got you pretty good."

"He did not, caught me off guard is all. It's just a little sore," Sam shoots him accusatory glance. Dean rolls his eyes.

"It's fine. Now, shut up and read your book, I need to get the laundry."

The week progress much of the same. Dean will cook, clean, cater to Sam, making sure he rests in between studying and doing homework. One of Sam's classmates, a short boy with dark hair and a squeaky voice, brings him homework every day, along with complete notes, written as if the kid could make an essay out of them. Aside from the sloppy handwriting, Dean is impressed. He lets Sam work himself into oblivion some days; they have nothing better to do anyways. Not as if Dean can magic them up some extra money to go see a movie, not even with the extra Alastair gave him. Everything goes towards bills to keep the hounds away.

Dean wonders when someone will come and question him about everything. Thinks a cop or a social service agent should have shown up by now. The kid that brings Sam his homework eyes him funny, as if he knows, and it makes Dean choke on his tongue. Crowley would not tell though, because that would be outing his own dad and he never talks bad about him. Dean pushes the thought down and keeps up with the list of things that need done. Chores mostly, emptying the garbage, cleaning the toilet, fighting off bugs. Sam offers to help at times, but he still has to wear a sling and Dean does not want to make his arm worse.

Sam starts to get annoyed, he just wants to help but Dean wants him to rest. He tells Dean, yells more, that he can still be useful. He says his arm is fine and Dean knows it probably is, but he still will not let Sam lift a finger. The plaster is still drying, practically, and he is not going to be responsible for any cracks in it. Therefore, Sam bottles any more complaints and keeps up with his work, pushing through essays and pre-tests, studying like it can save the world. Maybe it can, but that does not mean Dean is going to pick up a math book any time soon. Alternatively, he tries to think up a plan.

As far as Dean is aware, Dad will not be coming home soon, which is taxing. Dean still has to get him to talk to the principal, meaning he will be getting his ass handed to him in less than a week. On top of that, he needs to know what happened at Crowley's place. He needs to know if Crowley's mom called the cops filed a report, in they are just going to let it slide. Maybe she will pretend it never happened and Dean can too. As long as no one brings it up again, he thinks he can deal.

For the duration of Dean's stay in this town, he needs a new way of making money. A regular job is out of the question, employers cannot call him if they need too. Dean has been meaning to tell John that he and Sam need something better than the payphone outside of the apartment, but John tells them repeatedly that he just cannot afford it at the moment. Another reason Dean needs money. He can try to hustle again, make a few dollars here and there. Nothing will ever be as good as a sugar daddy willing to throw a few bills at a kid that will spread his legs, though. Dean hates to admit that, hates that he even let it happen, but he cannot think about that now.

When the time comes for Sam and Dean to go back to school, Dean is preparing himself for the confrontation he is going to have with Naomi. She is going to start talking about phone calls and demanding answers that Dean does not want to deal with on a Monday morning. When he breaks the threshold of the school, he begins marking out hiding places that he can slip into if he needs to. He makes a smooth entry to his first period, but the anxiety coursing through him makes it hard to concentrate. He keeps thinking that at any minute he will hear his name over the PA and have to report to her office. Dean's limbs shake and he cracks his knuckles, one by one, until he is out of distractions.

Naomi never sends for him, which lets him breathe easy. The nerves start to slide off when he gets to lunch and sees Jo in her normal place, chewing on a fry and pouring over a book. Some novel about osmosis and its contributions to science, Dean could care less. She almost seems surprised when he sits next to her, making sense since he has been gone for a week without a word to her. He picks at her fries and, when that does not earn him a response, he starts to worry.

"So, did you do anything fun this weekend, or did you spend it with your Bunsen burner again?" He jokes.

"I had fun, actually," she says almost lifelessly, shutting her book, but keeping a finger to mark her place. "Better than yours, I'm sure." Something like concern lingers in her tone and now Dean really is worried.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He dips a fry into ketchup but makes no move to eat it, just keeps dipping it until it is too soggy and breaks apart.

"There's just this stupid rumor going around," she starts focusing on the French fry drowned in ketchup and avoids Dean's eyes.

"Yeah," he swallows thickly. "What about? What dirt does anyone have on you?"

"The rumor is about you, actually."

"It's probably just some bullshit lie, no reason to be worked up about it."

"That's the thing, I'm actually starting to worry it's not." She still averts his eye and Dean's heart is a jackhammer, ready to burst through solid ground at any minute.

"Crowley, he said you were, that you fucked his dad. Actually, what he said was, that Winchester whore seduced my dad and now my life is a bloody mess, and, that he was going to rip your bloody head off. I don't actually know if he meant to, but he said it loud enough for the whole freakin' class to hear." She catches his eye a minute and looks away again. "Now the whole school is talking about it, has been since last week."

Dean cannot breathe, cannot move, limbs frozen like ice with a chill of wrath sewing its way straight into his nervous system. Jo says something, he thinks, but blood is rushing in his ears and another bout of grief is pushing the barrier behind his eyes. All the while, his jaw hangs loose and his sight focuses on nothing, unseeing and unhearing. Time seems to stop and a replay of Jo's words spin in his head with a backdrop of every time Alastair has used him and he greedily picked up the money. He really is a whore. Jo taps at his arm when the bell rings and even though his body is still numb, he can hear her now.

"Listen, it doesn't matter if it's true or not, the guy is a creep. Everyone knows that too." She huffs angrily and pushes Dean's shoulder again. "Dean! You're going to be late." However, Dean stays still. He thinks of a possum playing dead.

"Get your hands off me Winchester!" Crowley shouts in his face.

After Dean finally was able to move again, he missed a class and was running late to the next. He is lucky no teachers caught onto him sitting in the cafeteria for so long, and then moved to the bathroom to sit in an empty stall until he could calm down enough. He still did not want to go to class though. He would rather aimlessly walk the halls, which he did until he spotted Crowley in the bus port eating lunch. Seniors get to eat outside, if they want, with limited monitoring and Dean was not going to waste his opportunity to get his hands on the smaller boy. Crowley's friends only watched in horror as Dean slammed him against the brick wall of the school. He was on a mission and anyone in his path would go down.

"Why'd you fucking say it, huh? Why'd have to go and fucking say it?" Dean spits in his face, close enough to hear his heart skitter, his breath hitch, eyes wide.

"What the hell are you talking about? Say what?"

"That, you know what you said! Last week, about me and your dad."

"Oh," he chuckles. "That you're a whore." The word cuts into Dean fierce and he wastes no time landing a blow to Crowley's gut. He grunts with the force, but tries to smile anyways.

"What's a matter, can't handle a little truth?" Dean lands another blow, making Crowley double over this time. His breath is ragged and Dean can practically smell the fear on him, but he keeps going.

"Winchester's offended is he. Doesn't matter, you fucked everything up. My mom's asking for a divorce and my Dad has to stay in some ratty hotel, taking his money with him. I was supposed to take over his business after college." Crowley spits on the sidewalk and clears his throat. "Now, mom says I'm not allowed anywhere near him, that he's a dirty pervert, but we both know what really happened, huh Winchester?" Dean growls and lands a blow to Crowley's cheek, shutting him up for only a little while.

"A whore, is a whore, is a whore," he is chanting through grunts. Dean drops him to the ground and kicks him in the rib before making his break for the school doors.

Dean does not stop to go to his next class, nor does he come to a halt when a teacher begins to follow him and shout his name. He is sure if he stops and turns around he will be suspended again, he does not even care about that. He just wants to get out, be anywhere but where people cast him sideways glances and form false identities for him. A year, a whole year of trying to get out of the microscope of these kids and now he is back under, just like that. Thrown through a whirlwind, while everyone waits on stand-by to eagerly pick up the pieces. He does not want to be here, not anymore.

He tries to imagine something, anything, better than the murky grey walls that confine him, pin him like a bird in a cage. Nothing comes, just the same chant Crowley said over and over and he starts to believe. Begins to believe that he is a whore and that he is the one that seduced Alastair for a couple bucks because he knew it would be easy. Even if Alastair was the one to shove him to the asphalt and pry his mouth open the first time, he should have stopped then. Dean wonders if Sam knows, wonders if any of his friends know and nearly vomits because what if they ask Sam if it is true? What if they assume Sam is the same way?

The walls clash together and Dean's head spins, he needs to get out of here and fast before he loses it. He can feel the vertigo set in and nearly loses his footing as he rushes to the nearest trashcan and vomits. Mostly dry heaving as Dean forgot to eat breakfast and he only ate a few of Jo's fries before he could not stomach them. Stopping was a mistake because the teacher was still following him and now they have a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to inspect him. Mr. Singer, Dean's favorite teacher, is looking at him with these sad, questioning eyes. Dean vomits again.

"What is wrong with you boy?" He keeps Dean at a distance but his hold on him is firm.

Dean shakes his head and moves to walk away.

"Oh no, we got a busted up kid in the nurses office and now you're vomiting in the trashcan. You're not going anywhere."

Dean loses it, again, on the way to Naomi's office and Mr. Singer lets him get a hold of himself in the hallway. He tries to wipe away the tears before they can stain his cheeks, but his eyes already burn from them, pink and irritated. Mr. Singer wants to ask more questions, Dean can tell by the look on his face, but keeps his lips tight. When he thinks Dean is ready, he pushes him through Naomi's door and returns to his class.

Ungraciously, Dean trips over the carpet entering Naomi's office. The normal look of cool resolve on her face is replaced with a scowl that Dean wants to shrink away from and wreck at the same time. He takes his seat and digs his nails into the arm of the chair, anything to hold back the storm brewing in his throat. Naomi seems unimpressed, fingers curled around the manila folder that means he is going to be adding to it again. He fights the urge to rip and burn it.

"Dean, honestly?" She laughs in disbelief. "You've been back less than a day and you're already in my office." She leans back in her chair and exhales a sigh. "How do you expect to graduate in time if you keep up this routine?"

At this point, Dean is done with everyone coming down on him about college and futures and plans like it all matters suddenly. It never mattered when Dean was struggling through freshman and sophomore year, it never mattered when he was spending more days in the nurses office than in class. It does not matter now that he is left to raise Sammy while Dad does God knows what with who knows, leaving Dean with a few bucks and a promise of 'I'll be back'. Why should it matter now?

"Dean?"

"What?" He bites back.

"When are you going to stop this?"

Dean rolls the thought over before answering. "Now's a good time, great time."He has something wild in his eyes when he looks back at Naomi.

"Really?" She laughs. "Just like that, you're going to turn a new leaf?"

"Yeah, actually. I think it'd help us both." There is a beat before he continues. "I'm dropping out, effective immediately." He starts to move from his chair, making his way to the door when Naomi gets a hand on him.

"Dean, you aren't serious. You need think about this. This is your future." She is looking at him as if Dean is a completely new person, disbelief vivid in her eyes, Dean almost cannot believe the words as they ring out of him.

"Yeah I think I am actually. Think about it, no more suspensions, no more fights to clean up. We both know I'm not graduating this year, so why don't we cut the act and just get this over with. I'm seventeen, that's hold enough to drop out, so give me the papers, let's do what I have to do, I'm done."

"Is this what you really want to do?" Dean looks her in the eye and nods, jaw tight.

Naomi moves to the other side of her desk, pulls out a new folder, and drops it onto her desk.

Dean does not waste time leaving the school, ready to break solid ground, eager to be as far away from this school, these people, as he can. He cuts through the cafeteria and makes a smooth exit to the front parking lot. The sky is grey with an oncoming storm, birds chirping from their nests over head. Dean wants to sit on the grass, let his legs buckle beneath him, but they keep moving, keep carrying him further from the school. He watches the ground move beneath him, grass turning to dirt, dirt becoming cement, cement to asphalt. Dean nearly trips over a crack in the ground, even though his eyes were on it for a while.

A few hours remain until school is out, which means Dean will have to turn around and walk Sammy home. His feet will not cease though, they just keep projecting to or from the future, he is unsure, he cannot think. Dean's mind has been a blank slate since he signed the papers and handed them to Naomi, not even sure if he wanted that, but too late now he supposes. Therefore, he lets his feet carry him and wherever he stops, if he stops, is fine with him. He is going in circles, mostly, recognizes the old beat of car in a person's driveway, and a rickety house that needs a new porch. Rain starts to pour, drenching his shirt through the open spaces of his jacket, jeans bogged down with water. When the wind blows, it sends a shiver through Dean, he knows he should find somewhere to sit, away from the rain.

Eventually, he unlocks the door to the apartment and slides onto the couch, drenched clothes and all. Clattering teeth makes an echo in the small living room, Dean can hear his own shivering exhales. His toes freeze, so he slides off his boots and socks, tucking his feet under his legs. His jeans stick to him, heavy and uncomfortable so he slides them off next, pulls his shirt off after, until he is bare in the chill of the apartment. There is a blanket on the edge of the couch, so he tugs it, pulls it over himself, until the heat refrains from escaping, slowly warming his chilled bones. He tries to watch the clock, something to keep his eyes open, but sleep finds him, eyes tired from crying, throat sore from puking. All he wants his a few hours of sleep.

Dean wakes with a start when the door creaks open and shuts with a slam. Dean rolls off the couch, dragging the blanket with him, to keep his cold limbs covered. He can smell leather and aftershave before he has a chance to register who is breaking into the apartment, suddenly more afraid of the intruder. He wraps the blanket around his waist and tries flattening himself on the floor to become one with the carpet. Too late though, Dean already knows he is here.

"Dean Winchester, you get up and explain to me why you weren't at school." When Dean does not respond he adds, "Now!"

Dean holds the blanket around his waist as he pulls himself off the floor, his muscles sore. When he sees the glare on John's face, Dean straightens his back, squares his shoulders, anything to lessen the fire in his dad's eyes. Sammy is next to him, hurt look on his face, which is explained by the way John has him gripped by his bad shoulder. Dean tries to say something to him but John cuts him short.

"I want you to explain this first." He pulls Sam in front of him and lifts his bad arm, gentle, but Sam still winces.

"Gordon, some prick at school. Got Sammy in the bathroom a week ago."

"A week? For fucks sake, Dean, and you didn't call me?" He is barely holding back the venom in his voice and Dean fights the urge to smother himself in the blanket around his waist.

"I didn't want to bother you." The truth.

"Telling me you failed to keep your brother safe is not bothering me Dean, that's responsibility." He releases Sam's arm, who scrambles to Dean's side. "It's a broken bone Dean, not a lot tennis shoe."

Dean wants to say sorry, but the word is stuck in his throat, trapped between a scream and a whimper.

"Now, why weren't you at school? I went to pick Sam up and he said he couldn't find you, but you were there this morning. Did you get suspended again?"

Dean digs his nail into the meat of his thigh when he remembers. He remembers why he left early, why he cannot go back, hears Crowley's voice shriek through his brain and bites his lip to hold back another whimper.

"Answer me boy."

Dean cannot, the words are stuck in his throat, because he knows if he says them, John will be angry and disappointed. He shrugs his shoulders and looks at the carpet. John gets a grip on his jaw and Dean did not realize he moved, he is shocked when John makes him look him in the eye.

"What the hell did you do?"

"I-," he starts, voice cracking with the weight of his words. "I quit." John's eyes go wide and he grits his teeth. "Sir?"

"You're telling me, that while I was away, Sammy got hurt and you quit school?"

Dean nods and focuses on the stubble growing on John's neck, better than seeing the fury growing behind his eyes. He can feel Sam still beside him and burn Dean with his questioning gaze.

"Dammit, Dean!" He turns his back on Dean and begins pacing. Dean tries to anticipate his next move, body half covering Sam's own.

"It wasn't my fault, though," he tries. "Gordon is stronger, a lot stronger than Sammy and me. He has these two guys, real big and scary looking, who hold us down while he lays into us. It wasn't like I didn't try!" He can feel the desperation in his voice, the way his throat tightens. "We need to move dad, these guys are real assholes, they're the ones who broke Sam's arm, not me."

"So you just dropped out and thought, what? That I would just go along with what you wanted?" That is not the reason, but Dean likes that better than the real one, he nods his head.

"With what money Dean? I can't just move you anytime you get your feelings hurt."

Dean takes a step back, bumping into Sam and nods.

"This is bullshit." The air goes still and Dean keeps his eyes on the ground, watches the way the blanket folds over his feet.

"What?" Dean can feel John step into his space.

"I said, this is bullshit," he can feel the anger seethe in his voice. "You go out and leave me here to take care of Sammy, while you're doing God knows what." He finds courage somewhere and looks into John's eyes. "Meanwhile, Sammy and me, we're starving, smell like old laundry, look like something that crawled off the street. We deal with the shit, not you. I, yeah, I take care of Sammy, get him ready for school, prepare his meals, wiped his ass when he was just a baby. I go out and make us money, I pay our bills, I make sure Sam gets on honor roll every damn semester. So, if I think we need to move, for Sammy, we're gonna move."

The room is quiet before Dean hears the crack of John's voice.

"Out."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get your shit and get out. You think you're some big shot, better father than me. Get out then, go." Dean tries to stand his ground, but John is already stomping into his room. He can hear the clatter of things fall from the bathroom and the sound of shuffling in the bedroom. Meanwhile, Dean tries to pull on his clothes, still soaked from rainwater. He gets his shirt and jacket on, unwilling to part with the blankets warmth. John comes back with Dean's duffle bag, packed to the top and shoves it into Dean's hands.

"I want you out until you can learn some damn respect." With that, John's shoving him through the door, Sam pushing behind him, reaching through the spaces his body does not fill. John pushes him back and slams the door, leaving Dean, for the second time, outside on a Monday night and nowhere to go and without pants.

Dean finds a bar close by, with only a few dollars left from Alastair, he aims to put them to good use. The bar smells like stale beer and sweat, and from the look of the crowd, Dean can guess why. Most of the men here are old, much older than Dean is, and look like they work with heavy machinery all day. A few women sit in booths, none of them eager to make eye contact with the men; instead, they sip their drinks and focus on the television screens strewn about. The noise is muted, but there are captions on the screen for them to read as they tap their feet to the beat of some song from the 80's.

Dean taps his fingers on the edge of the counter; anxious because he left his fake ID at home and there is no way he is going back for it. Dean eyes a shot from across the bar and watches a burly man toss it back, barely making a face. Dean just needs a drink tonight, just to calm to the nerves. Tomorrow he can get his thoughts sorted. He has a few dollars, maybe enough to spend a night in a motel. After that, how is he going to make money?

Dean tries to flag down a waitress, but they are all busy. He thinks maybe if he charms them enough, he will get a drink out of them and he can be on his way. Maybe if he smiles in the right direction, one of the hungry eyed men will toss something his way, maybe he can get a few bucks out of them. He sighs and tosses a few peanuts into his mouth, realizing just how hungry he is. He hardly ate lunch and dinner never happened. He tosses back a few more peanuts and decides to order a burger instead. None of the waitresses are free yet, so he plays with the broken shells on the counter.

"You look a little young to be in a bar," Dean hears from his left. He turns to see a man, maybe his late twenties, with stubble and eyes too blue to be real. The man flags down a waitress easily and orders them both beers.

"You're a little old to be buying me a drink," he smirks.

"Castiel," the man sticks out his hand.

"Dean," he closes his hand around a warm, soft palm, and shakes.


	3. Good Boy

Dean drops his duffle bag on the ceramic tiles of Castiel's kitchen and feels his jaw unhinge at the view before him. At first sight, Dean supposed Castiel had a strange taste in design, judging by the argyle sweater in bland brown colors, accompanied by a comb over and navy blue jeans (the only current piece of fashion the man seems to own). They talked, of course, and Castiel sounded normal, talked about what Dean thought was normal. Castiel was a little quick with inviting Dean to stay with him, though, made Dean uneasy, but he figured he knew his way in a fight and could take Castiel if he needed too, even at his size. Though hesitant, Dean picked up on the offer, free bedroom, free range of the house, all at the price of a few chores and the promise of a career in his near future.

Now Dean stands in Castiel's kitchen, larger than any he has seen before, which is not what causes his eyes to go wide and mouth to dry. What does is the clash of pastel colors in Castiel's kitchen. The refrigerator a pastel turquoise, the counters a pastel crème color, everything in the kitchen a separate color, all for the wooden cabinet doors and tiled floor which remain a blinding white. The kitchen looks like something a 1950's home and living magazine threw up mixed with a little girl's bedroom. Dean knew the man was strange, not too many grown men buy a teenage dropout a beer and offers him a place to stay. Dean mentally prepared himself for an array of situations that could unfold, but this was unexpected.

Dean can feel the man press behind him and flick the light switch, illuminating the kitchen. The tiles reflect the light, along with the cabinets, and Dean feels himself go blind as Castiel ushers him to the next room, his palm heavy on Dean's back. Dean stumbles into the next room, boots caught on the carpets material, which he guessed it, some sort of shag carpet a bright white color to match the kitchen tiles. He turns in the room and finds a decent sized flat screen T.V. hanging on the wall with a plush baby blue couch facing it. Castiel, to Dean's surprise, has a modern television, so he lets out a sigh of relief, which he chokes on when he notices the wallpaper. The pattern makes him cringe more than the blue refrigerator, causing him to shut his eyes and take in a deep breath before he can look at it again.

"You have floral wallpaper?" He can hear Castiel laugh behind him.

"Don't be so judgmental." Castiel's voice is on the soft side of commanding so Dean snaps his mouth shut and stays silent for the rest of the tour.

Castiel shows Dean the living room, because, apparently, real houses have dens, which is different. Dean is still trying to figure out that concept when he walks into the larger room with a much larger couch and two large armchairs. Castiel's living room looks almost normal, aside from the unappealing print on the chairs. Dean assumes that is because anyone walking into the house for the first time would most likely see the living room first, and assume Castiel is normal. Dean caresses the soft fabric of the couch as he walks past and wonders when Castiel will let him sit down, walking all day and lack of proper nutrition has his legs feeling weak and his stomach rumbling.

Castiel continues walking, taking Dean up one flight of stairs to show him a large bathroom, which is Castiel's, connected to his larger bedroom. Castiel tells Dean he can use his bathroom to shower, says the one on the third floor only has a toilet. Dean has never heard of a house having a third floor and wants to laugh at the idea, but sure enough, Castiel has one. Small albeit, but the narrow staircase leads to a small bedroom, with a sloped ceiling. One door leads to a closet, too big for Dean's needs, and the second door leads to the cramped bathroom that has one small toilet and one glamorously outdated sink.

Dean cannot be meticulous though, after years of living in quickest, cheapest closet of a space Dad could find he should be thankful for the space. The house is larger than he anticipated, one of those apple-pie life types of deals with a family-sized kitchen with more than one bedroom, and more than one floor. He can sit in the den most days and pretend to be the only person in the house. His bedroom, he has never had his own bedroom, if only for the short while Castiel lets him live in his home. Even if the sheets are floral print, Dean will suck it up and deal.

Castiel instructs Dean to drop his bag in the room so they can have dinner and Dean's nerves start to catch up with them. Castiel never discussed, in detail, the chores he wants Dean to perform for him. Dean is not even sure if Castiel's idea of chores is the same as his own, for all he assumed he would just be mowing Castiel's lawn and washing his dishes to repay his debt, but what if Castiel wants more. He swallows thickly and tries to prepare for whatever it happens to be that Castiel wants in return. He has been through the ringer and thinks he knows how this is going to work, but plays with the idea that maybe Castiel is just some lonely guy looking for a roommate.

Castiel leads them back to the kitchen. The lights are still on and the floor is still blinding to look at, Dean tries to focus on the counter tops while Castiel opens and shuts cabinet doors. When Dean gets a closer look, he notices most of the equipment is brand new, shiny silver and hidden in neat corners. Castiel has more kitchen appliances and utensils than Dean knew existed. He flips a spatula in his hand and inspects it, the handle is still whole, and without burn marks from leaving it in a pan too long a time or chipped pieces from where the cheap plastic gave up. He tucks it back into its place and watches Castiel shift ingredients onto a counter.

"You got a farm in that fridge or something?" Dean drawls out, tapping his fingers on the counter.

"I'm a chef," Castiel laughs. "I keep my refrigerator well stocked. Baking is one of my favorite hobbies, actually. That's why I invested in all those mixing bowls." Castiel waves his hand in the direction of a shimmering mixer attached to a bowl.

Dean nods and picks up a saltshaker, the kind with a grinder attached to it. He has watched Chef's use them in cooking shows, never owned one and wants an opportunity to spin the crank. He puts it back in its place to avoid spilling salt all over the counter. Castiel begins cooking something in a pan that smells good. Dean wants to look but that would require getting closer to Castiel, he settles for peering under Castiel's arm instead. Soon, the kitchen is filled with the scent of good food and Dean's stomach rumbles, catching Castiel's attention he fixes Dean a look squinting at him with examining eyes.

"How did you get those bruises and scrapes?" He points a fork in the direction of a darker bruise healing under Dean's eye.

"Got into a couple fights," Dean says, running a finger over a healing cut on his cheek.

"Is that why you got kicked out?" Castiel asks, more to the food than to Dean.

Dean clears his throat, rolls his shoulders and picks at the healing scrape on one of his knuckles.

"Not exactly."

"What happened?"

"What is this, twenty questions?"

"I'm just curious. I let you into my home, after all."

Dean nods and watches blood bubble on his knuckle and wipes it away with his thumb.

"I got cocky, yelled at my dad, so he kicked me on my ass."

"You can't be older than eighteen, you still in school?" The subject change is so abrupt Dean has to take a step back.

"Uh, no, I dropped out." Castiel nods and shakes what is in the pan while pouring a sauce in. "I'm sure it's temporary though, nothing is really ever permanent with my Dad." He adds on.

Castiel nods again and continues to cook while Dean watches his back. Castiel is thin for someone who spends all day in a kitchen, Dean thinks. Even under the sweater, Dean can see the lean muscle definition and wonders if Castiel works out. When Dean looks down at himself, he remembers that he still has lanky limbs and is probably too thin but maybe Castiel is in to that sort of look so Dean tries not to worry too much. He still holds onto the hope that Castiel wants him to sweep the floors every day, and not for him to be fucked on them.

Castiel makes small talk while he finishes cooking, talks about his profession mostly. Apparently, Castiel enjoys baking cakes for a woman down the road and makes occasional cupcakes to satiate his brother's sweet tooth. Most days, he is in the restaurant he works at cooking meals for people he will never meet, nothing too fancy. Castiel wants to go somewhere with a more diverse menu someday. Culinary arts were the only class Castiel took in high school and enjoyed, so when college time came culinary was the course he stuck with. Dean pictures a young, scrawny, Castiel spending his entire day in some box sized campus kitchen, mixing and tasting batter all day.

Finally, Castiel finishes the food, a stir-fry with rice. Dean was eager to eat when he began smelling the food, but now his stomach seems to lurch. Sam is still home, maybe Dad is there, maybe not, with cereal and canned soup and somehow Dean got lucky with a warm meal on his first night out on his own. He wonders if Dad will heat up the soup for Sam the way he does, or if he will remember to sprinkle crackers in the broth. Sam like the crackers, they add texture, and some days Dean will add celery or carrots just for Sam. He wants to push the food away and drop it into a void. If Sam is hungry, he should be hungry. Castiel watches him from the corner of his eye so Dean picks up his fork and shoves a bite into his mouth, and hates how good it tastes. Castiel really can cook. Dean drops his fork, chews slowly, and swallows as if a hair trigger is waiting in his esophagus.

"Something wrong?" Castiel almost sounds offended so Dean is quick to reply.

"No, just stomach is upset." Dean taps his fork on the side of his plate, earning him a glare from Castiel. "Listen, this is good and all but I'm not really all that hungry anymore. Is it okay if I just go to bed, we can discuss everything tomorrow if you want?"

Castiel nods and slides the contents of Dean's plate onto his own.

"No problem. I'll wake you up before I go to work tomorrow."

"Great, sounds good."

Dean begins to march out of the room, into the den and already feels the sense of being lost. The living room leads to the staircase, he remembers, so he walks through the opening to the next room and looks for the indication of stairs somewhere to his right. The second floor has more rooms than Castiel pointed out, but the door to the narrow staircase is much thinner than the other ones, the only indication that Dean should go through that one. He races up the narrow steps, careful not to step too much on the edge and send him tumbling down the stairs.

Dean throws himself onto the bed and begins to feel guilty when the mattress is soft and the blanket is warm beneath him. This house has heating, he notices. Unlike the apartment, Dean can walk around without his jacket and not feel goose bumps dotting his arms, or have his hairs stand on end, seeking warmth. Castiel's house smells clean too, like scented cleaning agents and maybe a flower-scented deodorizer. Meanwhile, Sam lays in old sheets warn down to the barest threads and no matter how many times you scrub the floors you still have the lingering acrid smell. Dean pushes and pulls the blankets until they are over his head and tries to picture a scenario where Sam is safe and happy.

Dean wakes with a sense of panic, feeling as if the world has turned on its axis and he is upside down, scrambling for purchase. Except, he is not, in reality he is hanging off his bed, gripping the blanket like a grappling hook. He starts to shift and wake up when he remembers that Sam needs to be in school soon and he has to wake him. Too late, he remembers that Sam is a near two miles away and Dean will not be seeing him in the morning, for the first time in seventeen years. His heart sinks when he thinks of Sam walking to school alone, no one to defend him if he needs to be. No one to pour the milk in his cereal and no one to hand him lunch money before the morning bell rings.

Dean can feel the panic swelling in his chest before he can get a chance to right himself onto the bed, and falls to the floor with a thud. He coughs and tries to catch his breath amongst a head of blankets on the floor, another reminder that he got too lucky, that he has to do something for Sam if his Dad, if John does not. Dean pushes off the floor and climbs back onto the bed, wraps the blankets around him. From the attic, Dean cannot tell the time of day, the room is always dark when the light is off. He thinks of walking downstairs and checking but his feet ache and Castiel told him he would wake him when he needs to.

Dean needs a shower. He can smell it under the confines of the blankets and throws them off his head for fresh air. Castiel's room connects to the bathroom, so he wants to wait. Castiel has yet to show signs of a short temper, but Dean refuses to find out the hard way. In the short amount of time Dean has been awake, he has become restless, too much nervous energy worrying about Sam. He cannot even waste the energy on anticipating the discussion him and Castiel will have. Old men do not pick up kids in bars just out of the kindness of their hearts, in Dean's experience. He stifles a groan and pulls to his feet.

Yesterday's clothes stick to him uncomfortably and they smell. They smell like Dad's aftershave and the leather of his worn jacket, mixed with rainwater and beer. Dean begins peeling off the layers, including his boxers, which he shucks after short consideration. His duffle bag is tucked neatly beneath his bed, so he grabs it and slides it across the floor, resting it in his lap. He finds a change of clothes along with a notebook and a pen. After he changes, Dean flicks the switch to the lamp on his bedside and flips to a blank page.

The stories in the pages are the real ones, the ones he refuses to write for Mr. Singer, or admit to himself. An entry from yesterday takes up a few pages, mostly Dean's worries and concerns and few descriptions of Castiel's poor taste in design. Today, though, Dean does not want to write about the reality and the worries, he wants to lose himself in fiction and make-believe, find some ground to push up on until he is level with the world. Therefore, he writes a story he will think is awful later, but just to stop the shit swimming around in his head for a moment, an hour, and two hours. Until Castiel taps two knuckles on Dean's door and wakes him from his reverie. Dean has used up a good amount of paper in his notebook and makes plans to buy a new one.

Dean tucks the notebook and pen back into his duffle bag, zips it, and slides it beneath his bed before opening to door. Castiel is dressed in a plain white shirt and a pair of slacks that have seen better days. A layer of flour clings to one pant leg and Dean is sure no amount of scrubbing will remove the mess. Castiel greets him with a half smile, half grimace from wanting to be asleep still, Dean is sure. Dean follows him down the narrow staircase down to the second floor where Castiel stops in front of the bathroom and turns the knob, leaving the wind to push the door open.

"Shower, everyday please." He says, pointing to the bathtub. "There are towels in the cabinet over there and all my shampoo smells the same, I hope you like watermelon." Dean is unsure if he does, but he agrees anyways. He cannot afford to be fussy these days.

"When you're done I should have breakfast ready. Eggs, toast, coffee-do you drink coffee?" Dean shakes his head and Castiel's smile becomes teasing. "You can talk. No coffee, I have orange juice if you prefer. I'll leave you to handle this," Castiel waves a hand and walks away.

After his shower, Dean finds Castiel in the kitchen and takes a seat at the table where a plate with two eggs and two slices of toast is sitting. Castiel is gone, or so Dean thinks because he is not in the kitchen or any other room. Dean dips a piece of toast in the egg, breaking the yoke, scoops it up with the bread and bites into it. Dean's eyes scan the kitchen, searching as if Castiel has somehow hidden between the coffee mugs and Dean just overlooked him. No sign of him. Dean finishes his breakfast and drops the plate into the sink. He scans the kitchen again, anxious because Castiel still has not told him what to do while he is away and Dean wants to spend the day watching T.V. or maybe try to catch Sam after school. Dad is still home, most likely, so Dean decides that will have to wait.

Dean begins to turn away from the sink and walk towards the den when Castiel rounds the corner and knocks into him, almost sending him onto his ass. Dean braces himself on the wall and holds a hand to his chest, catching his breath. Castiel is laughing and Dean is seriously considering punching the guy. Castiel pulls Dean off the wall and pushes him into the den, onto the couch, where he sits beside him with a note pad and a pen in his hand. Dean laughs because he realizes he is writing a list of chores for Dean, something he does himself. Dean leans forward to read what Castiel has written, and winces when he gets an elbow to his rib for his efforts. He forgot how sore they were. Castiel eyes him suspiciously and stops moving his pen on the paper.

"You have more bruises?"

"Yeah, just a few. They're healing." He wraps a hand around the worse ones on his ribs, the ones Castiel hit, and waits for the pain to subside again.

"You get into fights a lot?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Are any," Castiel clears his throat. "From your peers, right?" He taps the pen on the paper.

"Yeah," Dean stares at him and the wheels begin to turn. "You think my Dad is hitting me or something?"

"It's not uncommon," he stops tapping his pen and begins writing again.

Dean just watches the ink roll onto the paper, unable to speak because what can he say? John has gotten angry. Sometimes he drinks too much and he will yell and scream in Dean's face at nights, apologizing in the morning. Dean lets him, because he knows Dad is having a tough time dealing with life without Mom, more now than ever. He lost his job, his real one with the permanent address and fixed hours, now he is lucky to make enough to cover the rent. Most nights John is gone or asleep and Dean can walk by without a confrontation of another failure, another mistake that John happened to notice. Some nights, John will be too lost in the haze to notice if he back hands Dean during one of his rants or pushes him into a wall too roughly. Never anything too serious. Dean never has bruises or scars so he shuts up because he understands. He understands that Dad is just going through a tough time right now and it is not him talking when he starts drinking, so Dean just deals.

Only once has John really hurt Dean, which was Dean's fault. He left Sam alone one night because he wanted to see a movie with a girl he liked. First girl he ever kissed too, a short blonde with silky hair and pink lipstick that stuck to Dean's lips. When Dean went home, John was holding a small Sam with a knot on his forehead from where he fell down the stairs trying to find Dean. He just had a nightmare, Sam told him when they were older, and he thought Dean was in the living room when he was not in bed. Sam had a concussion and his first stitches because of Dean and John let him know just how bad he messed up.

Castiel clicks his fingers in front of Dean's face to get his attention. Dean shakes the memory off and refocuses on the paper Castiel is holding. The list is finished now, Castiel caps his pen and throws it onto the coffee table and peels the paper from the pad. Dean leans in close enough to read the words while Castiel explains them.

"The first one, I mentioned already. Shower every day, hygiene is important and the smell of body odor is horrifying. I'll buy you deodorant while I'm out." Dean, offended, smells himself thinking that Castiel is exaggerating his smell, but says nothing. "Next, just basic things. Keep your room clean, keep these rooms clean. I hardly use them so they should not be a problem. The kitchen, also. Try not to mess with too much of the equipment, just wash the dishes. I'll leave leftovers for you to eat while I'm away- there is still stir fry in the fridge from last night." Castiel is rambling now and Dean starts to drift out of the conversation, Castiel really just wants a housemaid at a cheap price. Dean knows how to clean and he does not need the details spelled out to him as acutely as Castiel is doing.

Castiel's fingers grip Dean's jaw and turn his head to gain his attention. Dean hates the gesture and tries to pry Castiel's hands off, not succeeding. The man is stronger than he appears, glaring down at Dean.

"Listen to me when I talk. I cook, I do laundry, do not go into my room, and do not rearrange the furniture. No guests allowed unless I am informed beforehand, clean up your messes. Dean look at me so I know you're listening." Dean only looks away for a moment before his eyes snap back to Castiel. "Good. I'll have more specific instructions as they come, for today just take care of basic chores. Are you good with your hands?" Dean has difficulty nodding with his jaw clenched in Castiel's hand. "Good, I have a few odds and ends that need repaired."

Castiel drops Dean's jaw and pushes the paper into his hand. Dean rubs the side of his face and moves his jaw side to side.

"I'm going to work now. I get off around eight, so you have until then to get the chores done. Really, all you have to do is dishes, nothing too difficult. If you need me, my cell phone number is written down by the phone." He smiles down at Dean again.

"So, that's it?" Dean starts, as Castiel is making his way towards the door.

"What do you mean, that's it?"

"Nothing…weird?"

Castiel squints at him. "You mean, sexual?"

Dean ducks his head and nods. Castiel kneels in front of him and lifts his chin with one finger. He begins turning Dean's head side to side, examining him, Dean realizes. He pushes his fingers against Dean's chest, forcing him to lean back, grips Dean's shirt and lifts it enough to see the bruises scattering Dean's chest, ribs and stomach. He makes a disapproving sound and drops the end of the shirt. He looks down at Dean's legs, curious if those are bruised as well, Dean guesses. Lifting the jeans over his knees, he reveals a large set of bruises on one knee, and small one on the other. Some are from Gordon, some from bending over for Alastair so many times. Castiel lets out a sigh and sits back on his heels.

"No, you need to heal some more, you probably have a broken rib and I'm not going to risk making it worse." He mutters.

Dean lets his jeans slide back to his ankles and rubs his palms on the denim. He waits for Castiel to back away again to let the nerves set into his palms and make his fingers shake. Castiel may be gentle enough to allow him a healing period, but he still has concerns regarding bending over for a new person. He will do it, he needs the money, but if Castiel is as rough as Alastair was on occasion, Dean needs to brace himself. Alastair was Dean's first, so he worries about adding a new notch to his bedpost, wonders if that lowers his worth somehow. He feels like it does. Castiel runs a hand through his hair, catches some in his hand and pulls Dean's head back, to look him in the eyes.

"I'll be back at eight. Make sure to eat lunch, you look like you need it." He lets go of Dean's hair and walks out of the front door, leaving Dean alone in the den.

Dean sits and he thinks conjuring up all the possible scenarios he has gotten himself into, blocking out the worst of them. Castiel seems like a man who enjoys control, the way he orders Dean around and keeps his home so tidy. Dean can work with orders, used to being bossed around at home and in the bedroom. He has heard stories, though, about boys getting hurt from taking too much, too fast and about men who ignore the safe word or duel out punishments. His palms begin to sweat so he wipes them on his jeans again and digs his nails into the fabric. Castiel seems like a normal person, decorating sense aside. He works a normal job, goes out like normal people. He feels the need to remind himself that serial killers live normal lives and a chill curls down his spine.

Dean decides to spend the day cleaning and taking care of the list of chores Castiel has made for him, instead of worrying over whether or not Castiel is a killer. Most of the tasks are simple but time consuming and Dean loves getting lost in simple tasks. He starts to daydream and his head fills with wishful thinking, that maybe one day he can get a real job and get out, live on his own. Maybe he can own a house like Castiel's someday, or just a small apartment for himself and Sammy with separate bedrooms for the two of them. Somewhere that allows pets so Sam can have the dog he has always wished to have as a companion. Dean will move him out when he saves up enough and he will drive to Dad's one night, when he is prepared. Sam will slide out of the house and Dad will have to let him because Dad can hardly pay rent and Dean has a successful career.

The thoughts grow deeper as Dean scrubs the toilet and cleans sink drains. He can practically smell the autumn air in their little space, in a state Dad will refuse visit so Dean can take care of Sam the way he always has. Sam can tell him about the stars and the life cycle of a platypus and Dean will be happy to listen because Sam is out, he is home and Dean can provide for him. Sam can get into a good college because Dean will find the money, the way he always does. Dad will be mad, Dad is always angry with Dean but, perhaps Dean can find a good treatment facility for Dad and he will get sober, start seeing straight again. He can have a real career of his own and Dean and Sam will visit on holidays.

Dean is so lost in his thoughts he almost forgets to eat lunch. The stir-fry is still good when he reheats it. He marvels at the working microwave more than he should, he thinks. He is behind what Castiel gives if the man continues to cook as good every night. Breakfast too, eggs and toast is better than dry cereal or nothing at all. Dean remembers Sam, the real Sam with real problems, stuck in a world without Dean. He swallows his food a little harder and fights to keep it down. When he is sure Dad is gone on a job again he will sneak back to the apartment, or stop at the school to walk Sam home. Dean wonders if Dad walks him to school in the morning and makes sure no one calls him names or tries to pick a fight.

Chores are finished by late afternoon so Dean spends the rest of his time snacking on a bag of chips he found in Castiel's cabinet and watching a show. He should be productive, he knows, but he finished the tasks on Castiel's list. Dean pushes a chip into his mouth and tries to lose himself in the drama of the show. A tale of two brothers who fight ghosts, Dean likes it, likes to think he could take a ghost in a fight if he needed too. He drops a chip into his mouth and focuses on the action and special effects until he falls asleep.

Dean has the feeling of being caught with his pants down when Castiel wakes him up for dinner. Castiel is looming over him, eyes searching his face and hand resting in Dean's hair. Dean moves slow, exhausted from his nap. He catches the bag of chips before they fall to the floor and Castiel makes a tsk sound at the sight. Dean rolls the bag back up and moves to shove them back into the cabinet Castiel keeps them stored but Castiel catches his wrist before he gets too far, a light weight on his arm.

"Chips are not healthy. I have vegetables and fruit in the fridge if you need a snack." Dean would consider it a polite snack alternative if Castiel voice were not so commanding. He grimaces at the thought of eating celery sticks or apples while he watches his show. What is with the rules, taking care of hygiene and now Dean has to eat healthy? Dean wants to be thankful for the place to stay but at the price it seems to be costing, he is unsure.

"Yeah, sure." He says, slipping his wrist free.

He finds the cabinet, tosses the chips back in and returns to the den. Castiel is sitting on the couch with a bowl of spaghetti in his lap. Dean spots his own is on the table. When Dean reaches for the bowl, Castiel slaps his hand away.

"Go wash your hands first."

"What?"

"You heard me. You're hands are filthy, wash them before you eat."

"What the hell kind of old school rule is that?"

Castiel drops his fork in his bowl and peers up at Dean. "It's my room, in my house." He huffs and rolls his eyes. "Seriously, it'll take like two seconds. Your food will still be here."

Dean grumbles and marches into the kitchen, one naked foot slapping against the tiles, must have lost a sock while he was sleeping. He washes his hands fervently, scrubbing under his nails too, in some sort of mock spite towards the man giving him stupid rules to follow. He slaps the handle to turn off the tap and dries his hands on a towel hanging from a drawer handle.

Castiel is laughing to some comedy he switched the channel too and Dean grumbles again because it is most likely a show he hates. Dean picks up his bowl and gives Castiel a pointed glare as he does and sits on the cushion beside Castiel. Their elbows touch and knock together with certain movements and Dean becomes quickly annoyed with the proximity to the other man. Castiel does not seem to notice, just laughs and eats his food. Dean wants to grab the remote, change the show to something he prefers, but Castiel has it guarded in his lap and Dean is not going to reach for it there.

He finishes his food quickly, eating in large sloppy bites. Castiel stops him to point out the mess Dean is making on his shirt and face, but Dean ignores him in favor of inhaling the bowl until his stomach is full and feels like it will burst. Castiel drops his empty bowl into Deans, and pats his leg to indicate that Dean needs to wash them. He would go clean them, but his stomach is too full and he would much rather sit on the couch staring at a stupid show. Castiel turns the television off and Dean thinks it must be the man's bedtime.

"Dean, wash the dishes."

"In a minute."

"Dean."

Dean curses under his breath and picks up the bowls, starting for the kitchen. He washes them, dries them and when he returns to the den, the T.V. is turned to the show Dean was watching earlier. Dean slides into the spot on the couch he was sitting in earlier and lets out an exasperated sigh. If Castiel keeps making him get up and down all day, he is going to strangle the man. Eventually, he settles into the cushion again to watch the show.

"Good boy," he catches Castiel say from his side, catching him off guard.

"Is this some sort of weird kink thing?" He asks after a pause, real curiosity in his voice.

Castiel is quiet but from the corner of his eye, Dean can tell that he is thinking.

"I guess."

Dean has heard of pet play and dominants but the idea of Castiel actually being the type to go for it throws Dean off kilter. Castiel is still focused on the show so Dean does not try to think too much of it, if Castiel wants Dean to be a good boy to feed some deep sexual desire then he can play along. He settles back against the couch to watch the show. The brothers are fighting a ghoul now. One, the youngest, is tied to a table while the other tries to fight them off. Dean is engulfed in the suspense, even though he knows the brothers will always win. Still, one time they died, so Dean can never be too sure anymore.

His mind is filled with escape strategies and questions about the sudden third brother when he feels it, the feather light touches to his scalp. Petting, Castiel is petting him, fingers running through Dean's hair like they would a cat and Dean's whole body goes stiff. The whole thing is just odd, the only person that has done this to him was his Mom. She used to play with his hair until he would fall asleep, but that was a long time ago. At some point Dean relaxes into the touch, his body leans closer to Castiel and he can feel the man's warmth sinking into his skin as he fights the urge to rest his head on his shoulder. Castiel moves him, instead, pulls Dean closer until Dean is straddling his lap, which only serves to confuse Dean more because Castiel said no sex only hours ago.

"You did good today," Castiel's voice is warm brushing over Dean's face, Dean can see the light from the television dancing in Castiel's pupils. He knows this is just some act for Castiel, but he almost feels good when the words hit him. He refuses to move, just keeps his hands in his lap and stares at Castiel, waiting for the next order. If Castiel wants sex, his mind will need to be clear or he will be too tense, making the whole ordeal more painful than it needs to be.

Castiel's fingers are still sliding through his hair, but one stops to slide to the nape of his neck and pull. Dean resists at first, but gives into the pressure until his face is mere inches from Castiel's. The man tilts to close the gap and press his lips to Dean's, light and simple. Dean kisses back too late, but goes unnoticed. Castiel deepens the kiss, tongue sliding along Dean's for access, which Dean gives him. Dean lets his tongue slide into his mouth and lap over his own, Castiel groans and a few blunt nails scrape against Dean's scalp. Castiel breaks the kiss to catch his breath and Dean waits for Castiel go for more, but he never does.

Castiel slides Dean off his lap and rises to his feet. Dean wonders if he should drop to his knees, but Castiel grabs him before he can drop.

"Not yet," he mutters voice rougher, Dean likes it better with the hint of gravel. "Bed." He flicks the T.V. off and pushes Dean toward the stairs.


	4. Mine

Dean has been living with Castiel for a week now, an entire week of cleaning and scrubbing the floors. An entire week of following Castiel's rules like, brushing his teeth regularly, and showering every day, leaving Dean smelling like a basket of fruit by the time he is done. He has spent the week dusting little trinkets Castiel has scattered around the house. The kind only grandmothers keep in their antique china cabinets the kids should not touch. Dean has developed a hatred for porcelain dolls when he gets to the last one, a clown in a silk outfit that Dean is sure will give Sam nightmares. He thinks it will give him nightmares.

While Dean has been busting his ass, Castiel is lounging around the house reading articles from magazines only housewives own, in Dean's opinion. Every time Castiel grins at a skin care article Dean wants to snatch it, burn it and watch the look of disappointment grow on Castiel's face. Not that Dean should complain, this is the work he signed up for when Castiel offered him a place to stay, but Dean still needs money and Castiel still refuses to touch him. The whole ordeal is so irritating Dean ponders the idea of smashing a trinket just to get the man's attention. Dean doubts he has luck with the women or men and knows he has to be wanting some sort of release.

Castiel goes about his days so normally, as if Dean does not exist. The only time he acknowledges him is when he cooks dinner or has a new desert that needs sampled, which Dean is happy to oblige, unless recipes reach disastrous levels. Even then, Castiel is quick to dismiss the boy, says he has work to attend to, which Dean wants to point out that, yes, he does. Some mornings, Cas will spend a few minutes admiring Dean's physique before he makes his way to the bathroom for a shower, but he never touches, just looks. Dean keeps quiet, tries to anyways. He attempts to focus on the demeaning tasks Castiel gives him while he is away at work.

Dean starts to wonder if Castiel is scared to touch, maybe he thinks Dean is fragile, or knows he is too young. He had no qualms about inviting Dean into his home, though. Dean will have to show him, let Cas know he can take anything. He should not be treated as if he is glass just because he still has fading bruises dotted along his ribs and knees. Cas is Cas, though, so Dean scrubs the sinks, washes the dishes, and takes out the trash, waiting for the opportunity to come for him to earn a few dollars. If he saves up enough, he wants to visit Sam, wash his laundry if he needs, and make sure he has enough food for the week. Dean knows firsthand that Dad never leaves enough money when he is away.

Dean starts to wonder how Sam is doing, if he is still getting good grades in school and hopes he is avoiding fights. Nothing makes Dean's skin itch and prick with a thousand needles like the idea of Sam caught in a corner by Gordon with one functioning arm and no one to pull his ass out of the mess. Sam is a smart kid, but he leads himself into trouble trying to hold his own against them. Perhaps he thinks if he can outwit them or use enough sass Gordon will back off, but Dean knows better. He knows it is fueling a fire with him, if anything you keep your mouth shut and let him spit on your feet to keep your ass in one piece. The principal will never side with them and causing trouble will mean suspension again, so Dean is confident Sam is staying out of trouble out of desire of having good grades.

Enough days have passed that Dad has to be gone again, off to do who knows what with who knows. Dean wants to know what Dad really does when he is away, because it is not working and they are still scraping pennies to make ends meet. He wonders if Dad knows he is faltering like a dam with a crack in its wall, slowly and surely, the debt will wash over them and swallow them whole. Dad will lose the apartment again, Sam will have to find a new school with a new set of jackasses and Dean will not be there, again. Dean cannot let that happen, Sam needs solidity in his life, not the same mess of here and there Dean had, that only leads to missing curriculum and flunking out.

Even with the pricks and nosey teachers, Kripke high is the best school they have had. Dean made a friend, while Sam has a group of them. None of them visits the house, but Sam talks about them enough for Dean to be able to recognize them by face. Maybe Sam can even meet a girl here, think about college, real college that costs a second mortgage to be enrolled in. Dean will do the work, he will find a job, a real one with real hours. Castiel has a house phone, employers can call him and reach him, and he thinks he can find a place within walking distance.

Between washing bed sheets and folding socks Dean makes a plan, he will get out tomorrow or Saturday and hunt down job applications, get a real start on his fantasy. As much as Dean hates John for kicking him out, he is glad finding a temporary place was easy, with good benefits too. Dean might have to suck the man's cock a couple times, but in a few months or longer he can save up enough money and be out on his own, start making his own decisions and plans. Real ones too, not just the stories he writes in notebooks, only to shove it under his bed where he will hardly see it, never think on it much more than a daydream.

Sam needs this, Dean tells himself, because if Dad moves him because he ran out of money and the hounds are after him, and Dean is unaware, has to find out through Jo or one of Sam's little friends he will be ruined. He is sure. Sam cannot be moved more than the two miles that separate them now, Dad cannot change their address and not tell Dean, not like he would though, right? Dad would tell Dean, he is sure, he has too. Dean does not want to think about the possibility of Dad taking Sam away to some new town, so he focuses on trying to make Castiel pay attention to him.

After the kiss in the den, Castiel has hardly entered Dean's space, other than to occasionally run fingers through his hair, or straighten his shirt. He still makes ridiculous orders for Dean, just simple tasks but they mean more work for Dean on top of the growing list he gives him every morning. Dean thought he would draw the line when Castiel made him wear a polo, said it made him look dignified. Dean fought the urge to rip the shirt to shreds, the collar was too stiff against his neck and the sleeves rubbed his armpits uncomfortably. Who wears those shirts casually anyways? Dean prefers his beat down t-shirts no matter how many holes they have. Then he does not feel like a stuffy pampered kid waiting to inherit his daddy's fortune.

Maybe, when the last bruises have faded, Castiel will touch Dean again, but he cannot wait that long. He is getting claustrophobic in his own skin, he wants to see Sam but wants to have money for him when he does. If Castiel would just forget his rules for an hour, Dean can start making progress. Dean decides to wait for his next opportunity, catch Castiel off guard, work him until the man breaks and has to throw a couple dollars Dean's way. The man may be a control freak, but everyone breaks at some point.

Dean is dusting the ceiling fan when Castiel presents an opportunity. He is mixing a new flavor of cupcake, a request from a sibling of his. Castiel has been fussing over the concoction all day, raving about how difficult his brother is why his other flavors are unsatisfactory. He has a repertoire of easy to make cupcakes, but his brother just had to request a new one. Castiel says he thinks his brother's goal is to irritate him and he has won. Dean hears Castiel call him in the living room and begins his climb down the table and sofa, duster in hand. He drops it on the counter and makes a mental note to wipe it down later on.

The last two times Castiel made Dean taste his cupcakes, they were beyond dreadful so Dean hopes Castiel has mastered the flavor by now. He can practically taste the salty batter and sour icing from before and crosses his fingers Castiel has mastered the flavor this time. A person can only stand to test so many flops before their stomach starts to churn.

When Dean walks into the kitchen, Castiel's sweater is caked in flour and his sleeves stained with dry frosting. Dean tries not to laugh, but with the way Castiel's hair is tousled and his nose is scrunched in disgust at the mixing bowl he can hardly contain it. The laugh bubbles out of him, making it hard to breathe, so he has to brace himself on the counter to keep standing. Meanwhile, Castiel holds the bowl between his hands, eyebrow raised at the boy before him. Dean has to wipe the tears from his eyes before he can ask Castiel why he was called into the kitchen, though the reason is obvious he still asks.

"You called me?"

"Yeah." Castiel eyes him suspiciously. "Why are you laughing?" Dean tries to contain a few more chuckles by wrapping his arms around his midsection.

"You should see yourself, man." Dean removes an arm from his waist to reach out and shake some flower out of Castiel's hair, which now stands in even more directions. Dean tries not to laugh again.

"Right, well I need you to try this." Castiel says, dipping his spoon into the batter, he scoops a small amount onto the spoon and forces it into Dean's direction.

"Oh no, I'm not trying that again. Last time I nearly choked 'cause you put too much salt in." Dean backs away from the spoon as if being near the mix can harm him.

"Dean, stop messing around and try this. I have to finish these tomorrow or my brother is going to raise hell. I do not want to be on his bad side." Dean still does not budge. "Just, come on already, it will take five second, and then you can do whatever."

"Whatever I want?"

"Yeah, now get over here." Castiel grips Dean's shoulder and pulls him closer, the spoon hovering in front of his face.

"You have to try it too, though." Dean says, ducking away from the spoon when Castiel tries to serve it to him. Castiel rolls his eyes and huffs an exasperated sigh.

"Whatever, fine." He mumbles, forcing the spoon into Dean's mouth.

The mix is not terrible, a little sweet for Dean's tastes but Castiel says his brother likes sweet so he should like them. He does not swallow the mix, only holds it onto his tongue so he can taste it. When Castiel begins to dip the spoon back into the mix, Dean grips the front of his shirt and pulls him closer, with Castiel swatting his hand away to no avail. Dean smashes their lips together ungracefully and forces Castiel's lips apart. He fights at first, but then he relaxes his jaw and Dean presses the mixture into the Castiel's mouth, he moans as he accepts it and swallows it down when Dean steps away from him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks.

"What the hell Dean?"

"You said anything." His smirk grows larger, but Castiel frowns and begins writing on an index card that must be the recipe. Dean frowns now, because Castiel is not taking his bate, and he was proud of that move.

"Not that." Castiel finally says, slipping the card into a small box.

"Why the hell not?" Dean is frustrated now and does not bother with hiding his anger. A week he has stayed in Castiel's house and so far, he is just the man's maid, picking up after him and cleaning. What he should be doing is the kind of work he came here for, the kind that will earn him the money he needs. Those were the unspoken terms, and Dean is not stupid he can read between the lines. He wants to say it all out loud but he worries Castiel will send him out on his ass again.

"I told you why," Castiel says calmly, unrolling saran wrap to place over the bowl.

"Well I'm fine. I'm walking, talking, perfectly able bodied." Dean says, closing the space between him and the man. Castiel sets the bowl aside and wets a rag, then proceeds to clean up the mess of spilled ingredients on his counter top.

"Go do something else, I'm trying to clean."

Dean watches Castiel slide the rag over the counter, snatching ingredients and sliding them along the counter into the trashcan Castiel holds against the shelf. Spilled eggs are mixing with flakes of flour and water, making a paste within the trashcan and sticking to the rag. Castiel continues the process until he has wiped all of the ingredients off the counter. Dean thinks he is done, but Castiel only rinses the rag, squeezes it and begins cleaning the surface again. Before Castiel can wipe half the counter, Dean grabs his arm and pulls it away, making Castiel pay attention to him.

Castiel glares down at Dean's hand and succeeds at pulling his hand free. Dean has a second to react before Castiel grips him by the collar of his shirt and begins walking him into the den. Castiel pushes Dean down onto the couch, a hand on his shoulder commanding him to sit. Dean watches him walk back to the kitchen and thinks maybe this is it, he went too far and now he is going to be on the streets, maybe not so lucky this time. A creep might spot him right off the bat, pull him away and Dean will be gone without a trace. John will never know and Sam will have no one to look after him properly.

Footfalls on the carpet tell Dean Castiel is back, but he keeps his eyes on his lap. He waits for the sound of Castiel's voice, a shout to tell him to leave. He can practically hear the words already, feels them burn his eardrums and wants to cover his ears, make it stop. Make everyone stop pushing him away. Dean needs to get a hold of himself, Castiel is a stranger he has known less than a week and they only kissed once. If he wants Dean out of his life already, he will have to accept that he messed up again, always messing up. Dean digs his blunt nails into his jeans and waits.

Castiel stands over him, dean can feel the heat radiating from him. His hand moves, maybe he will hit Dean, show him just how bad he is. Alastair did, never wasted a second on Dean's bullshit, he put him in his place straight away. Maybe Dean is a glutton for it, bringing it on because he knows he deserves it. Dean feels Castiel's hand in his hair, he waits for the tug and burn that never follows, instead Castiel strokes his fingers through and removes his hand. His finger rests beneath Dean's chin and he forces Dean to tilt his head in his direction and look at him. Castiel's eyes are hard, his mouth a firm line as he asses what to do with Dean.

Dean swallows the knot in his throat and waits.

"Why are you so eager for it?"

"Wha-what are you talking about?"

"You, trying to force this."

"What do you mean? I'm not forcing anything, you're just taking your good old time." Dean sighs and tries to shake his jaw from Castiel's grips. "I need the money, remember?" Castiel drops his chin.

"I remember."

Castiel begins to walk away, towards the living room and Dean fidgets with the hem of his shirt. He focuses on the loose thread at the edge of it and pulls until it is free.

"Are you coming?" Dean jumps when he hears Castiel, he thought he was gone.

Dean gets to his feet, relieved to do what he came for, but nervous energy still bubbles beneath his core and threatens to spill out through shaky palms. Dean counts the steps as Castiel leads him to the bedroom, tries to exhale evenly when he sees the door. Castiel's hand closes over his own and pulls him through the threshold and Dean hopes Cas cannot feel the sweat on his palms, he needs this. Castiel shuts the door behind him and Dean thinks it is funny considering they are the only two in the house. He walks Dean towards the bed and Dean starts to think up a fantasy, something to focus on while Castiel is inside of him.

Castiel lays Dean on the bed, a palm pressing his back against the sheets and Dean tries to focus on the softness of them, a change from hardwood floors and his back pressed against brick. Castiel runs a palm over Dean's chest, smoothing the fabric beneath his hand and Dean thinks about bringing home money to Sam, the way he will be happy to see Dean again. Castiel pushes Dean further up the bed, hands under his shoulder blades, breathe ghosting over Dean's mouth and then gone. Dean's head sinks into the pillows, some expensive fabric he will have to ask about some day, so he can have the same in his own house.

Dean closes his eyes and pictures a house, his house, with shutters on the windows and a functioning doorbell. The rooms will smell of clean linen, except the kitchen. The kitchen will be the scent of fresh apple pie and dinner that night. Dean can taste the home cooking, he can never be as good as mom but he can try, anything is better than canned soup and crackers. When Dean smells the hint of fruit, he knows Castiel his hovering over him now and he waits for the tug on his clothes to indicate he should lift his hips. He feels a hand grip his jaw and thinks he should open his mouth.

"Pay attention," Castiel says. Dean fights himself to open his eyes and look at Castiel.

"Good boy," the comment makes Dean's stomach flutter and tighten.

Castiel's fingers tickle Dean's sides as they hitch his shirt up to his chest, Dean lifts his arms so Castiel can slide it off with ease. Once the shirt is removed, Castiel's hands travel over Dean's stomach and ribs, making it difficult for him to stay still. Dean tries to focus on a fantasyland but the first press of Castiel's lips to his own reminds him that his life is different now. Dean no longer, lives in the house with his Dad, who may get angry sometimes but still tried, always tried. He does not wake up to Sam complaining about the lack of warm water or go to sleep in cold sheets on creaking springs.

Castiel kisses him again, tongue searching for entrance and Dean concedes because this is what he is good at doing. He can lay down with ease and grant a stranger entrance to his body, his own flesh, for the price of feeding his little brother and keeping their broken down excuse of a home. Dean will let Castiel's hands wonder his skin, searching for the release he needs because this is what he was born to be. Sam is the son going to college to make it big in the world and Dean will lie down time after time to see that he does. Dean almost misses when Castiel begins to pull away, but catches the front of his shirt, pulls him down and keeps their bodies level because he does not want to look or see or feel just happen.

Castiel releases Dean's clutch on his shirt, prying finger by finger from the fabric until he can hover over Dean on both hands and just look. Dean tries to turn away but Castiel holds his head between his hands, making him look. Dean feels the stress swell in his abdomen, gripping his lungs until he struggles for oxygen. The weight settles in his chest uncomfortably and Dean wonders how he missed it when it was always there. Dean is a whore, a low down money greedy whore willing to open his legs for anyone who bats his eyes and flashes some cash. Dean is the whore that wrecked Alastair's marriage, the one Crowley hates and who the kids at school talk about.

"What's wrong?" His voice is low, barely a whisper weaving its way through Dean's ears making him itch.

Dean wants to say nothing, tell Castiel to keep moving but a vice has his vocal cords, choking him. He shakes his head and grips betweens Castiel's shoulder blades, pulling him closer, close enough to see the reflection in his eyes, so he shuts his own. He waits for Castiel to force them open again, but he never does. He just kisses Dean again, chapped lips pressed to his own and he tries to seem hungry for it, to let Castiel know it is okay to continue.

Castiel begins pushing Dean's shirt up his chest, revealing tanned skin with small, barely there bruises amongst his ribs. Dean tries not to move when Castiel begins pressing his finger tips to them, one by one, marking each place they land. Dean can feel his lips skim over his ribs, tickling the skin and presses his hands into Castiel's back to keep still. Much more conscious of the rise and fall of his chest, he tries to steady his rhythm as Castiel's hands pass over, thumbs skimming over his nipples.

"Have you done this before?" The question is so quiet, Dean thinks he imagined it.

"Why?" One of Castiel's thumbs makes small circles over his nipple and Dean grips Castiel's shirt.

"It's important to know who I'm going to bed with."

"I don't have anything."

"You sure?" Castiel is quick to ask.

"Yeah, why?" Does Castiel think he is dirty? Dean begins to feel uncomfortable in his own skin and wants to cover himself or hide.

"So, you've done this before?" Castiel holds Dean's neck in his palms, and kisses along his jaw, rough stubble rubbing against his smooth skin.

Dean wonders if Castiel will stop if he tells the truth, if he will think Dean is just a dirty as he does. His palms begin to sweat against Castiel's shirt but if he moves his hands Castiel may stop, meaning no money. He digs his nails into the fabric hard enough to bite into Castiel's skin, to find a sort of ground. Dean opens his mouth with a prepared answer when Castiel lips graze his ear and gravel words sink into him.

"Don't lie to me."

"Yeah, once." Dean waits for Castiel's hands to stop, for the weight of his body against his to leave, but it never does.

"Did he leave marks like these on you?" Castiel asks, sliding his fingers over Dean's chest and ribs. His words are warm against Dean's neck and he wants to lean into them, let them wash over him. He can feel what Castiel is truly asking, if Alastair hit him.

"Sometimes." Dean gasps when Castiel begins sucking a mark on his neck. When one is finished, he starts to add another, lower and lower, stopping at his collarbone. He licks and kisses the skin there and Dean fights a moan from escaping. A real one, not one brought out for the sake of getting him off or boosting his ego.

"Not anymore." His tone is commanding as he pushes Dean's shirt up and begins to kiss his chest, sucks a mark and another below it.

"No," Dean breathes out. He relaxes his grip on Castiel's shirt and opens his eyes again. Castiel is hovering over him, eyes searching his face, fingers working through his hair.

"Good boy." He kisses Dean again, quick press of his lips to Dean's and then he removes himself. Dean feels the cool rush of air when he leaves and shivers.

"Done already?" He sits up on his elbows and watches Castiel search through his bedside drawer.

"For now." He pulls out a wallet, cracks in the leather from years of use. He pulls out a few bills and hands them to Dean. "You're still bruised and I have cupcakes to make." Dean nods and shoves the bills into his pocket. He is happy to accept money without bending over once, feels good for a change.

"Is it alright if I leave for a little while? I got something I have to do." Dean moves from the bed and pulls his shirt down, covering the marks Castiel left. Castiel eyes him suspiciously.

"Like what?" He straightens Dean's shirt, hands smoothing out the wrinkles he created.

"Visiting my brother." Dean mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"When will you be back?"

"What's with the third degree all the time?"

"I just want to know. I have to cook dinner, remember. I don't want to end up eating extra if I don't need to."

"Right." Dean runs his fingers through his hair, flattening it back to its normal state. "I shouldn't be back late."

"Good." Castiel moves Dean's hand out from his hair and begins combing through with his fingers, styling it. Dean lets him work it to a manageable state before knocking his hands away and leaving the room.

"See you later, then."

Dean walks to the side of the school building and watches from the street over. If Dad is still around and wants to pick Sam up, Dean does not want to run into him by accident. He keeps a distance, knows Sam will come out of this door and Dad's Impala will rumble down the road and signal his arrival. Now, he waits for the sound of the bell to release Sam into a sea of students. The minutes tick away slowly and Dean becomes anxious, bouncing from foot to foot just for something to keep him busy.

The sun is out today, warming Dean against the chill of the wind. He pulls his collar up around his neck and shoves his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. His left hand finds the money, twirls it between his fingers, the reminder of why he came. Reminder that he cannot stay long, he needs to make sure Sam is fine, give him some money, maybe chat and return to Castiel's. The bell rings and Dean prepares himself for the worst, prepares an exit strategy incase Dad shows. Dean is nervous now, it has been week since he has seen Sam and he wonders if he got into any more fights.

Dean's ears begin to burn from the cold when he spots his brother trotting through the schoolyard towards the road. Enough time has passed, Dean assumes Dad would be here if he were coming, so he crosses the intersection and jogs towards Sam. The cast is still on his arm, a few signatures now from his friends Dean supposes. He catches Sam's shoulder before his brother can cross the road and Sam turns around, scowl ready.

"What the hell Dean?" Sam's scowl turns softer. "Where have you been, it's a week now since you've been home."

"I found a place to stay." Dean fixes his collar and pulls his jacket tighter to his chest. "What about you? Dad giving you any shit? Gordon?"

"What? Where did you get a place to stay?"

"Some guy taking in strays. Now you, what's been going on with you?" Dean breathes on his fingers to warm them.

"What guy? Do you want to go to the apartment, its warmer there?" Sam eyes his hands before turning to walk home.

Dean walks beside him, fighting the urge to check Sam for new bruises himself. He would not doubt Sam would try to hide them if they were there. He needs to know, though, has to know that Sam is okay. If Sam is hurt, he needs to fix it.

"I'm fine," Sam finally says.

"You better not be lying," Dean casts him a sideways glance.

"I'm not, just stop worrying already. I can feel you seething from over here."

"Whatever, bitch."

They walk in silence, wanting to escape the cold as quickly as possible. Autumn is leaving quickly, as the once colorful leaves become brown and dried out. They smash easily beneath Dean and Sam's feet while they walk, Sam exaggerates a few footsteps to stomp a few more. The cold fights them but Dean smiles, glad he and his brother can slip back into their habits so easily. Sam leaves a trail of crushed leaves behind him when they walk down the road towards the apartment. Dean follows Sam as he climbs the stairs and waits for him to unlock the door.

The apartment is the same, Dean wonders why he thought it would be different. The only difference is his blanket is folded and hanging on the arm of the couch now. Dean runs his fingers along it, thinks back and remembers that John would probably have his ass if he saw him here again. He needs to get what needs done completed, then return to Castiel's for dinner. Maybe one day, if he remembers, he can collect a few leftovers for Sam to reheat. Sam drops his book bag on the couch and opens it to spill his books.

"You never told me about this guy you're staying with," He says, organizing his folders with the books they belong to, then he picks up a notebook and opens it to a page of notes.

"Not much to tell you. He bakes, has a nice how though he can't decorate for shit. I'm not exaggerating Sammy, flower wallpaper, total nightmare." Sam cringes as he writes answers on a worksheet. Dean recognizes it as an English paper, he probably has a test soon and Dean feels bad for wasting his study time.

"He's nice though, for letting you stay there without a job and everything."

"Yeah, he is. I actually, uh, I did some hustling while I was out. Figured Dad wouldn't leave you enough money." Dean pulls a couple bills from his pocket and drops them on the couch. "Should be enough to do laundry and buy more food when you run out. You got dinner for tonight. Want me to make you something?"

"Dean, sit down before you give me an ulcer. I'm fine, okay. I got some canned vegetables I can heat up easy, no need to panic."

"Yeah, but Sammy that's not real food. How about I take you out, I have a couple extra dollars so we can get a burger. My treat." Dean tries, feeling guilty when Sam shuts his book.

"That sounds great, actually. Can we do that now? I have homework I have to take care of." Sam says, pulling his jacket over his shoulders.

"Yeah, sure thing Sammy."

Sam pushes a couple fries into his mouth and washes them down with his drink before biting into his burger. He wanted a salad but Dean thinks he can do with some greasy food, to put some meat on his bones. He wipes the salt from his fingers and soaks the grease into a napkin before biting into his own sandwich. He tries not to think about how okay Sam is without him. He does not want to picture Sam waking up without him, or walking to and from school alone. He is already driven in school, should be no surprise to Dean that he is keeping up in his studies so acutely. Sam is going to graduate with honors and get into his Dream school on a full ride scholarship. Dean swirls a fry into his ketchup, lost in the pattern of around and around, then back again.

He hates the idea of Sam growing up without him, not needing him the way he used to. He wonders if Sam could always take care of himself, if he was just crowding him for years. Maybe Sam is more independent than he thinks, or maybe he just has not been on his own long, is just filling the passing time waiting for Dean to come back. For Dean to take care of the messes and mend wounds the way he always does, always will.

"So Dad drop you off and leave again?" He pulls his fry out of the ketchup and begins drawing patterns on his napkin with it. He is a little curious, he wants to know what happened after Dad kicked him out, if he went after Sam at all.

"He stayed a few days before he left. Didn't say much, didn't do much. Spent most of his days back at the bar and nearly blew through the money he made. I don't think he pulled much in from this run, but he thinks the next one will be better."

"What do you think?" Dean breaks his fry into smaller pieces and arranges them into a pattern on the napkin. His fingers are soaked in ketchup and grease when he is finished. He still wonders what his dad actually does while he is out. He wants to know if he works hard or if he hustles for a bit of money to show them he did something.

"I think he's full of shit." Sam watches Dean's hands for a moment. "You okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm good." Dean wipes his hands on a fresh napkin.

"You're not eating." Sam points to the mess on the tray, his face twisted in disgust at the shameful death of the wasted food.

"Not hungry." Dean slides the plate towards Sam, who eagerly grabs his fries.

"So, you're okay then?" Without me, he wants to add.

"I'm good."

Castiel made angel haired pasta with a white sauce for dinner, Dean has never tried it before but it looks like spaghetti and nothing Castiel has made is bad so far. He twirls it around his fork the way Castiel taught him (there is a way to do that, too) and forces it into his mouth before he can chicken out. The taste is different, but good so he keeps eating forkful after forkful while Castiel sits quietly across from him. They are eating in the kitchen today because Castiel says he likes to make use of his dining table on occasion. The seats are a bit uncomfortable to Dean but he has money now and refuses to complain.

"How was visiting your brother?"

Terrible, Sam is so independent now. He thought for sure Sam would be happy to see him again. They are brothers and even if Dean cannot cater to him as he used to, Sam should appreciate that his older brother came back just for him. He could have skipped town, said forget it to the both of them. Dean raised the kid his whole life, changed his diapers, fed him, and clothed him. He carried him until the day he stood on two feet and walked. Now Sam is learning to do more and more on his own and Dean hates it, makes him feel useless. As if making money is his only purpose anymore, and maybe that is why Dad is so bitter anymore.

After taking Sam to eat, he stopped by the grocery store and bought a couple bags to keep Sam stocked. He even bought Sam some vegetables for his lunch and remembered the mustard for his sandwiches. He showed Sam how to use the washing machines, another thing Sam will be able to do on his own now. Then he dropped Sam off at the apartment and started his walk back to Castiel's house. Winter is creeping in and he has a suspicion he is getting a cold.

"It was fine. How about you, finish the cupcakes?"

"Yes, Gabriel will enjoy them, I'm sure. Thanks for taste testing. We even have some left over if you want."

"Thought I was supposed to be healthy?"

"You deserve a treat every once in a while." Castiel's tone sounds less as if he is talking about food and Dean wonders if this is part of his kink. The guy has some strange ones, the petting and the ways he says 'good boy' anytime Dean does a task right. He can only guess how many more are hidden, waiting for the perfect time to come out of the woodwork.

Castiel wipes his mouth on a napkin and drops it onto his plate. "Clean these up then go to bed when you are done." Castiel stops behind Dean, kisses the back of his hair and leaves.

"Yeah, sure." Dean waits. When Castiel is gone, he finds one of the cupcakes on the counter and eats it. They really are good.


	5. Punishment

Castiel has proven to have more rules than one human being should in their own household. He is anal about everything, making Dean clean areas of the house no one will ever see, like that basement or garage. Dean will do it all too, he has heard Castiel be stern and he worries what an angry Castiel will be like. He will complain, though, just to feel like he won something in the ordeal. Dean likes to roll his eyes while Castiel has his back to him and mutter his complaints under his breath while Castiel listens to terrible music that Dean knows is out of date, the record player proves it.

Dean was okay with washing his hands before meals and brushing his teeth regularly but lately Castiel's rules have become tedious, almost strenuous. Dean has to wake up early every morning now, he thought quitting school would put a stop to it but apparently, it does not. On top of that, Castiel wants Dean to be dressed and ready for the day, no more shuffling around the house in his pajamas while he does chores. When the man makes breakfast, Dean has to eat it no matter how many vegetables are in his omelet. Dean even had to drink a health shake one morning because Castiel said it would help regulate his digestive system. Dean is convinced Castiel is crazy.

After breakfast, Dean is supposed to wash the dishes, even on the mornings Castiel has left for work early. He will do it, too, just the way Castiel asks, being sure to scrub the egg off before laying them to dry. Then Dean does his chores, whatever Castiel happens to think up that morning, Dean does. Most of them are ridiculous like removing the cobwebs from the garage. Dean hated that one. Castiel's garage is a mess of old magazines and newspapers covered in dust and his car is almost never parked in it, only when it rains. Dean thinks he spent an hour checking the garage for hidden webs he missed that day. When Castiel came home, he patted Dean on the back and called him a good boy.

Always the same pet name, good boy, Dean feels the need to tell Castiel he is not a boy, or a pet for that matter, every time. He will be eighteen in a few months so Castiel should treat him with a little more respect, weird kinks included. All the same, he hates that the phrase fills him with such pride, as if he did something great when he has been doing grunt work. Same with the comfort he gets when Castiel runs his fingers through his tangled hair. He will not admit to it, but he also enjoys the way Castiel praises his body with light touches and kisses, never seeking more than to feel.

When Dean finishes his morning chores, Castiel makes him clean the messes he makes after cooking, those are easy though, simple wiping of the counters or washing dishes. Castiel will ask Dean if he ate lunch and Dean knows he checks the fridge just to be sure. He always wants to know if Dean has a snack, as well, because Dean is supposed to be healthy now. He feels like he is turning into Sam with the amount of fruit and vegetables that he has eaten lately. Sam would enjoy living with Castiel, a clean room, working water and all the health food the kid could dream about eating. Dean will have to buy the kid an apple to make it up to him.

What Dean hates the most is the manners he is supposed to use during dinner when he and Castiel are the only ones eating. No elbows on the table, chew with his mouth closed, use a napkin instead of his shirt, use a fork, Dean, please. Dean is positive Castiel gets off on the idea of controlling Dean, watching him follow simple orders even though he hates it, and Dean wonders why he does follow them. The chores he has to complete to fulfill his part of the deal but the things like washing his hair and scrubbing under his nails are unnecessary. Castiel should not mind if Dean hates the idea of wearing pressed shirts or combing his hair every morning.

Dean decides he does not want to do them anymore. He would rather be grungy if it means keeping a shred of dignity. He will do his chores and shower regularly, because if he is honest smelling like soap is better than sweat, but no more petty rules. No more having spray in his hair just to wash it out in the morning, or wearing clean socks around the house. He may not even dress appropriately in the mornings anymore, he would rather walks around in his underwear anyways. Life is easier that way, he thinks.

When Castiel leaves in the morning, Dean takes his shower and scrubs the spray out of his stiff hair, he washes his armpits and feet but does not bother to scrub beneath his nails. He washes his face, because hormones are a bitch and he could do without the blemishes. When he is finished, he dresses into a pair of sweat pants with a waistband too large for his size, he ties the strings tightly and hopes they stay on. He finds an old shirt with his favorite band logo and throws it on. Today, he will be comfortable while he cleans.

After lunch, Dean eats potato chips and sweeps the crumbs off the floor when he is done. He even wraps the rubber band around the middle of the bag, the way Cas keeps it. Dean washes the dishes with a rag instead of a sponge because that is how he always has and Castiel will never know. He finishes the other chores with enough time to relax. He wants to snack again, moving around the house all day always makes him hungry and celery sticks never fill him enough. He grabs a cupcake from where Castiel keeps them and eats it, cleaning the crumbs off the counter and tossing the wrapper.

When Dean finishes his chores, he grabs his notebook from his duffle and sits in the den. He turns on Castiel's stereo, neatly placed beside his record player. None of the records Castiel owns are any good so Dean refuses to touch it, in favor of saving his ears from the pain. Dean finds a good station with his favorite tunes and increases the volume enough for it to bellow through the house without shaking the furniture. Last thing Dean needs is for the vibration to send an antique picture frame to the ground and put him in debt.

Dean sprawls across the couch with his notebook and begins to write. The last pages of his notebook list the rules Castiel made, that he was nervous to forget, but could care less now. He skips over a few more pages to the list of chores he had today, all of them crossed off except the last one he did, which was to clean the gutters. Dean has to laugh because cleaning the gutters is not a chore he imagined doing in his life. He crosses it off and draws an X through the page to mark the day's completion. Then, he finds a new page and journals his day.

Everyday, since Dean has lived with Castiel, he has written about the events that took place, marks the new rules, the chores, and his earnings, not because he needs to remember but because it keeps the motivation alive. He is sure he would have rampaged through the house peeling off the wallpaper if he did not see the money he makes per week. He can make fifty easy just by letting Castiel kiss him, fifty more if Castiel can touch him. All the money goes to Sam or their proprietor of their apartment. Today, Castiel has hardly touched him so Dean has little to write, just leaves a space for the possibility of something happening later in the night. He flips to a clean page and writes a personal entry.

Most of the entry is finished by the time the clock strikes, Castiel is the type to own an old grandfather clock that chimes a pretty tune every hour on the hour, signaling Castiel's return in a few short minutes. Dean finishes his entry with a date and rushes to tuck the notebook back beneath his bed in his duffle. In his room, he thinks about changing into the shirt Castiel gave him to wear or a fresh pair of pants, but he started his small-scale defiance and, intends to see it to the end. Castiel has to know that he does not own Dean, nor can he dictate his every move.

Dean marches down the narrow stairs to the second floor, then down into the living room and waits in the armchair. The material is plush, this is probably the first time Dean has sat in this chair, he prefers to spend his time in the den with the television and stereo, or his bedroom. Today is different. Dean is on a defiant streak and plans to keep going. He slinks back into the chair and slings a leg over one arm, resting his head in the crook of the arm and back. His body his small enough to fit comfortably on the cushion and for moment Dean does not care that the pattern on the chair resembles an ugly curtain.

Dean traces the shapes in the ceiling with his mind, Castiel has one of those paint jobs where the paint has been sponged to create a pattern, rather than a straight paint like at the apartment. He wonders how those people do it, if they have special sponges or a particular brush that makes the effect. Perhaps the paint is different too, something that will not drip on the carpet, only harden into the desired shape. Then he wonders how they remove it if they are requested to do so, do they have to scrape it all down and start over. The whole process annoys Dean. Why would anyone decorate his ceiling anyways? He has little time to delve into the thought more, because Castiel walks in holding a bag in one hand and a messy coat in the other.

Castiel raises an eyebrow at Dean, but says nothing, only takes his bag into the kitchen after shucking his shoes at the door. Either Castiel has not noticed the boy's attire or he simply does not care as much as he thought he would. Dean waits for Castiel to call him into the kitchen to help with dinner, he is never allowed to cook but he cleans the messes and washes the pans before they eat, normally. On occasion, Castiel will show Dean a trick to making his eggs or a way to prevent burning toast, but it all goes to waste because Dean can never touch the spatula or go near the pristine toaster.

Dean continues to wait for the sound of Castiel's voice calling through the house, but nothing comes. He peels himself out of the armchair, neck stiff from where it bent in the crook of the chair, so he moves it until he is comfortable again. Dean takes the time to fix his shirt and straighten his loose fitted pants, feeling somehow guilty for wearing them. He begins to feel odd in his own skin and the defiance builds a sort of ugly feeling in chest, like wearing a pair shoes on the wrong feet, he wants to shake it off. He shakes out his limbs, inhaling as he does and attempts to settle his nerves before he walks towards the kitchen.

Castiel is sitting at the table, a plate filled with Chinese takeout that Dean is suddenly eager to eat. Castiel makes great food, but Dean needs a greasy meal once in a while, just to feel normal again. Between health nut Cas and want-to-be-healthy Sam he is left craving burgers and fries daily. Dean sits in the chair opposite Castiel, conscious of his hands suddenly, remembering he should wash them, but does not. Instead, he reaches for the bag Castiel brought only to have it snatched away, while Castiel keeps his eyes on his meal.

He cuts a small piece of orange chicken, mixes it with rice and puts it into his mouth. Chewing slowly, he makes torturous sounds, groaning around the food in his mouth and swallows with a contented sigh. Dean reaches for the bag again but Castiel swats his hand away. Dean mutters a curse under his breath, scoots his chair back releasing a shrieking sound as wood scrapes linoleum and moves to the sink. He turns on the tap and applies a generous amount of soap to his hands then scrubs them beneath the faucet, still ignoring the dirt under his nails because he needs some control in this situation. He dries his hands on a towel and turns to take his seat again.

Before Dean can return to his seat, Castiel's hand stops him, pushing against his stomach as he tries to force himself through. He cocks an eyebrow down at Castiel and motions for him to move his hand, but Castiel stays firm.

"No, kneel." He says, disinterestedly.

"What? Are you serious?" Dean tries to push past his hand again but gets nowhere, he is hating how strong Castiel actually is, compared to his small frame. Castiel snaps his fingers and points to the floor beside him and Dean really begins to feel like a dog.

"Kneel." He says again, a short command. Dean sighs heavily and drops to his knees, keeping his freshly washed hands in his lap.

"No, that won't do. Again."

"How the hell did I mess that up?"

"You're being defiant, do it like you mean it." He says, pushing another forkful of food into his mouth. Dean's mouth waters and he drops to his knees, this time without a sigh.

"Good boy," Castiel runs a hand through his hair and pulls it away quickly.

"This another kink thing?" Castiel shrugs his shoulders.

"You were bad today, it's a punishment thing." He squints at the far wall and bites into another piece of chicken, making Dean's stomach growl.

"How was I bad?" Dean knows the answer just by looking into his own lap. Then, he remembers the shirt Castiel left in his room for him to wear and the mess of his hair. A swipe of his tongue along his teeth reminds him he has not brushed his teeth today, either. He tries to keep his face blank to not give his own guilt away. The ugly feeling creeps into his chest again and he thinks for a moment that he is blushing, he just feels bad. He fiddles with his fingers, digging the dirt out of a nail.

"I'm sure you know," Castiel's voice teases. Dean hears his fork drop to the plate, a small clink before he grabs Dean's wrist. "Let's go with this for now. Your nails are dirty, why?"

"I didn't want to clean them, it's not like it hurts you if I don't. I can do what I want with my own nails." The words have less passion than he intended, they sound weak and sorrowful. Dean feels betrayed by his own voice and continues to pick the dirt from beneath his nails.

"Don't do that, go scrub them." Dean is about to complain but Castiel interjects. "Then, you can eat." He presses a palm to his stomach and clean nails are worth Chinese food he decides.

After his nails are scrubbed, he thinks Castiel will let him sit in his seat again, only to have the same palm hold him back, then point to the floor. He stops himself from rolling his eyes, not wanting to repeat the motion because of the action. Dean drops to his knees with a little less grace then the last few times, earning him a new bruise on his knee. He looks at his hand, making sure the dirt beneath his nails is gone before extending a hand to Castiel for him to check. Castiel investigates each nail and rolls the edges of some against his thumb before dropping Dean's hand.

"Good, tomorrow we're going to trim your nails. You should stop chewing on them, by the way." Dean ducks his head to roll his eyes without Castiel catching him.

Castiel opens the bag and produces a second container of takeout. He pours some out onto a plate and asks Dean if he wants sauce before adding a small amount and mixing the contents. He fishes out a fortune cookie, which Dean is allowed if he continues to be good (Dean wants to be, but the defiant part of him tells him not to). Then he finds an egg roll and places it on the plate, beside the food. Dean wants to tell Castiel he does not eat them, he usually gives his to Sam and takes Sam's orange chicken. That is how they have done it since they were kids.

Dean keeps quiet and watches Castiel arrange his plate, turning the takeout into a real meal. His stomach feels empty, even after eating chips and a cupcake so he mentally wills Castiel to hurry and hand him his plate. He is surprised when Castiel spears his fork into a piece of chicken and offers it to him. He stares at the meat, wondering why Castiel expected him to eat it out of his hand so eagerly, he is a human he feels the need to remind the man.

"Eat." Dean pulls the chicken off the fork with his mouth and chews slowly, he is still uncertain about the way Castiel has chosen to go about this. This is one hell of a punishment, he thinks, swallowing the food and waiting for another bite.

Castiel takes a bite of his own and then another. Dean grows impatient, as one piece of chicken is not enough to quell his rapidly growing hunger. He chews on his nail and contemplates gaining the man's attention, or waiting for him to remember. That could mean Dean sitting on his knees all night while Castiel eats at his leisure pace while his food grows cold. An involuntary huff leaves him as he pictures Castiel forcing him to eat cold food on tired knees. Castiel turns to face him and eyes him before twirling noodles around his fork and offering it to Dean. He eats it and swallows, waiting for more.

They continue the pattern, Castiel eating while Dean waits on his knees, growing more irritated with each tantalizing bite the man takes. He feeds Dean too slowly, he is so used to scarfing his meals down in minutes, while it feels like Castiel is taking hours. Dean even checks the clock to make sure it has not. His food is still warm with each bite but grows lukewarm as the time passes. If the food does become cold, Dean will not eat it, no matter how many times Castiel offers it. He desires to grab the fork for himself and eat the rest in a few quick bites but Castiel keeps his fork out of reach, on purpose perhaps.

Dean huffs another sigh when Castiel takes too long dipping his egg roll in sauce and takes the time to wipe his mouth off. He plays with the excess fabric of his pants while he waits, patience growing thin. Dean still has about half a plate of noodles and chicken to eat, an egg roll and possible fortune cookie. Castiel is taking too long and Dean is sure he is teasing him on purpose. He keeps making obscene noises as he eats and smacks his lips in a way Dean has never heard before. This time, Castiel waits a few minutes before scooping up another bite and feeding it to Dean.

Castiel finishes feeding the last bite to Dean and he still feels unsatisfied, the prolonged eating does not compare to the bloat he normally gets when he forces a meal down. Castiel rolls the egg roll in soy sauce, handing to Dean and letting him eat it on his own. The first bite is good, so Dean does not mind a second, but without the sauce as a barrier, Dean can taste how cold the center has become. He thinks about spitting it out but Castiel casts him a glance from where his is now straightening the table so Dean chews and swallows. He finishes the whole roll and wipes his hands on his pants because he can. From behind Dean hears Castiel sigh in annoyance and he smirks.

"Dean," he exaggerates the syllables and Dean fights the urge to laugh.

"Yeah?"

"Clean the dishes, when you're done go in my room, strip down and wait for me." Dean tries not to sigh again but pushes from the floor, his knees are sore from bending for so long. He rubs at one before grabbing their plates.

Dean waits on Castiel's bed, naked except his boxers, he likes to keep them on until he can hear him walking up the stairs. He always as enough time to take them off and lay them on his folded clothing, the way Castiel prefers it. He wonders what Castiel wants to do tonight, most nights he just kisses him fast and rough, then slow and chaste. To each their own Dean thinks, when Castiel stops there and hands Dean a few dollars. Other nights, Castiel just wants to touch Dean, to trace the outline of his slender muscle along his stomach and an arm, kissing along each groove, Dean likes that because he can close his eyes and drift to another planet. Dean wonders when he will venture further and touch lower.

He presses his head against Castiel's pillow, never able to get over just how soft it is, or the way the mattress seems to shape to his body perfectly. He runs his hands over the smooth comforter, feeling the quilted stitches beneath his fingertips. He closes his eyes and feels like he is floating on a bed of clouds, then laughs to himself because the line is so cheesy it deserves one, but it is also true. The bed Dean sleeps in is soft, but not like Castiel's, something about a feather lining just above the mattress, Cas told him when he asked. Dean slides his boxers off and lays them on his clothes early, worried he will miss the creak the floorboards signaling Castiel's return. He lies on the bed and rolls onto his stomach, reveling in the feel of the blanket beneath him.

A few moments pass before Dean hears the door creak open, he wipes his eyes in disbelief that he almost fell asleep here. He peeks around his shoulder to see Castiel stripping out of his day clothes, into a clean pair of pajama pants and a fresh shirt. Dean smells the laundry detergent as Castiel comes closer, bends to search through his nightstand and retrieves something Dean cannot see clearly. He squints and looks around the room for something else.

"We gonna do this, or what?" He asks.

"Quiet."

"No need to be an ass," Dean grumbles into the pillow. He is being testy, but he waited for about half an hour for the man to finish reading a magazine. His eyelids are heavy and his muscles are sore from standing on a ladder and cleaning the gutters. Castiel needs to hurry along before Dean falls asleep.

Castiel finds something in his closet and pulls it between his hands, a tie Dean realizes after shifting to see clearly. It is late for Castiel to be dressing up, then again Castiel does a lot of strange things so he would not be surprised if he had a late night party to get to. Dean turns his head back to look at the headboard, and then flinches when a palm presses to his back and holds him still. He feels Castiel straddle his back, something new so he tries not to disrupt him too much, but changes his mind when he feels the cotton of a tie being pulled over his mouth.

"What the hell, Cas?" He tries to wiggle away but Castiel holds him down with his palm pressing his chest into the bed.

"I told you to be quiet. I'll take it off when I think you can be good." Castiel begins to slip the tie into place again and lets it slip a moment for Dean to speak again.

"I better not end up a dead body after this or something." Castiel laughs, making Dean's skin crawl.

"I'm not a serial killer Dean, you just haven't learned yet." Dean wants to ask what that is supposed to mean but Castiel replaces the tie and ties the ends around his head. He can still breathe so he tries to relax while Castiel tugs lightly at his wrists and bring them to cross behind his back. Dean knows a little about bondage, knows that if you move too much you can hurt yourself so he tries to fight the urge to kick Castiel down and run. Of all the creeps Dean could have run into, he found the one with a laundry list of kinks.

Castiel ties a rope around Dean's wrists, tugging to makes sure the knots are secure. Dean tugs on them himself, and swallows the panic when there is little give to them. Castiel's hand massages over a wrist, a small comfort that helps him breathe again. Castiel smoothes his palms over Dean's back while he works on relaxing to the new sensation of being tied up. He never let Alastair do this, or any of the girls he has been with like this. None of them were as strange as Castiel though. A few moments pass and his wrists stop instinctively tugging against the rope while Castiel continues to rub his back.

A hand slides down his spine until it lands to his ass, he tries to stay still as Castiel's hand skitters over the sensitive skin. His finger dips below, a few of them fondle Dean as his other hand presses him into the mattress and Dean tries not to moan as his cock rubs against the comforter. Castiel repeats the motion a few more times, teasing Dean with the flick of his fingers and press of his palm, until Dean cannot hold back and lets out a choked off groan.

"Quiet," he instructs. Dean wants to protest because Castiel is blatantly teasing him now, as he removes his hands and body from Deans.

He returns with something in his hand and rattles it, making a small chime. Dean has difficulty looking without hands to prop himself up but he is sure Castiel is holding a bell now. He feels the cold metal of it press into his palm as Castiel leans over him, nips at his ear and licks the exposed skin of his throat.

"This is your punishment," he begins, voice low and wrecked like he gets off just from watching Dean struggle against the rope and hold back whimpers and groans. "Ring it twice if I'm hurting you," he guides Dean's hands to show him just how to. "Ring it once when you're about to come, don't wait, ring it when you feel it so close," he grips Dean's balls again. "That it hurts." Dean chokes on his own saliva because this is a completely new level he is definitely uncomfortable with.

"Don't strain yourself." Castiel rubs the back of Dean's neck, a gentle touch before removing his body completely. The bastard sounds so pleased with himself that Dean tries to turn to look at him and only manages to dig the rope further into his skin. He winces and focuses on relaxing again. Castiel examines his wrists a moment, loosening the rope where Dean has managed to make them tight.

"Don't do that, I don't want you hurting yourself." The pad of his thumb rubs one of Dean's hands. Dean wonders how he does it, always so commanding and in control with these stupid gentle touches that make Dean feel like a teenage girl. He exhales, sinks into the mattress, and relaxes again. He really should not be so relaxed with a rope binding his wrist, a gag in his mouth, and only his peripheral vision to guide him.

"Good boy."

Castiel moves away from the bed and returns a moment later. Dean's whole body rocks as the bed shakes around him. He feels disoriented, not being able to look and watch all of the man's movements. He shuts his eyes and lets the silence overwhelm him, envelope him like a cloak. The bed dips and creaks again and Dean feels as if he is on a boat, swaying with the open sea and lets it overtake him. He begins to feels something cold and wet press against his hole finding it difficult to stay still when he realizes that it is Castiel's tongue. His body jerks with the first press of it so Castiel holds his hips still.

"I don't give you these rules to watch you squirm Dean," Castiel says after a tentative lick. His tongue traces around the hole and Dean feels himself clench and open for it, an invitation betraying his own body.

"They're to help you learn. You have to learn the basics before you can move on to the real challenging stuff." Castiel dips his tongue into his hole and Dean flinches again, it feels good, so good that Dean wants more. Castiel takes his tongue away and chuckles.

"You have to learn patience, for one." Castiel leans back, the bed creaks again, and blows air on Dean's rim making it twitch and beg for more. He keeps his hands still with the strength he has and chokes back a whimper.

"Remember that I'm the one in control, Dean. I say when you get what, where you get it and how you get it. You just have to let go." Castiel's voice is softer now as one of his hands runs along the length of Dean's spine. His other hand plays with Dean's cheek, massaging it.

"I want you clean for me, everyday, so I can lick every inch of you." Dean lets out a short gasp, muffled by the tie as Castiel places a kiss to his cheek, then another to his hole. His tongue traces him again, small flicks of his tongue catching along the inside for a moment, a small spark of pleasure and then gone.

Dean keens for it, body moving incrementally along the mattress for friction. Castiel spreads his thighs a little wider and holds his cheeks, one in each hand as he begins to eat Dean out in fervor now. His tongue dips in, presses a little harder than the previous kitten licks making Dean buck into the sheets, hands scrambling for some purchase. When Castiel presses in again and wiggles his tongue inside, Dean squeezes the little bell and worries he might break it. He pumps his hips against the mattress and stifles another groan, almost too lost to remember to be quiet.

Castiel presses a thumb along his rim, adding more pressure and sensation than Dean has experienced before. Most of the time, Alastair would open him quickly, and finish just as fast. Castiel is taking his time working Dean over like a piece of candy and he is fighting to maintain composure. As his hips move quicker so does Castiel's tongue, both working in sync to bring Dean to release and he can feel it brewing in his stomach, knows it will only be a little longer until he is brought to the end. He remembers the bell a little too late and hates himself when he gives his a jingle.

Castiel removes his hands and tongue, a light hand tugging on Dean's balls while the other holds his hip still. Dean catches his breath and focuses on puppies and ugly old man skin, anything to take away the burn from being denied his release. The bed shifts again, Dean can feel a warmth being draped on his back until Castiel's breath tickles his ear.

"Good boy," his voice is low, thick as gravel and Dean thinks he might lose it. He nods and whimpers when Castiel kisses his shoulder.

"It feels good, doesn't it, being a good little boy?" Dean nods and forgets to remind Castiel that he is not a boy. His body is wound too tight for him to find a clear thought.

"So why were you bad today? Was it just to spite me, or see what I would do?" Castiel brushes Dean's hair back from his forehead and he thinks if Castiel is waiting for a reply, he has already assured he will not be getting one. "Never the less." Dean hears a cap flip shut and he knows what to expect this time.

Castiel rolls his finger over Dean's hole but does not press it, just makes it slick with lube and spit. Dean pays attention to the rise and fall of his chest, trying to keep himself relaxed to prevent the burn. Castiel's finger presses in a small amount, just the tip rolling around in a lazy circle coaxing Dean to relax. He presses slow, sliding in to the knuckle and works the tension out of Dean by rubbing his shoulder. Dean lets him in, hands fighting to stay still the further in Castiel slides his finger.

Then Castiel begins to move, sliding out to the tip, and back in a torturous rhythm. Dean thinks he really may lose it as he ruts against the sheets and pushes against Castiel's finger. One finger has Dean scrabbling against the ropes, hips snapping against the mattress only to press back for more. Castiel's free hand stills the boy's wrists, rubbing at the small burns he has created on his skin.

"Careful," he whispers as he twists his finger and moves in deeper.

Dean thought the tongue was going to kill him, the way he moves it so fluidly inside of him. A finger to the knuckle had him bucking against the sheet, but whatever Castiel just did is enough to make Dean want to scream. He waits for it to happen again, Castiel's finger moves out, then back in, twists and curves to hit the sweet spot that has Dean's hips sporadic against the sheets. He wants to feel it again but he knows that another touch is going to send him over the edge. He shakes his head against the pillow and jingles the bell, feeling a sob perched in his throat when the man removes his hand and stills his hips.

Just as before, Castiel leans in, drapes over Dean and kisses his shoulder. Just like before, Castiel whispers in the same gravel voice, "good boy." Dean cannot take it this time though, mind too focused on finding a release and he grunts behind the tie. His hips snap a final time against the sheet and he comes so hard he thinks he will pass out. The high is so good that Dean hardly feels bad for breaking Castiel's rules or letting him down. He relaxes and revels in it and Castiel laughs.

"Sorry," he tries to say, but it comes out garbled. He hardly knows why he is, but he feels the need to say it, begins to feel disappointed in himself for not holding out long enough.

"No worries," Castiel removes the tie and throws it to the ground. Dean moves his jaw side to side, trying to remember how to use it as Castiel unbinds his arms. He replaces the rope in his nightstand and climbs onto the bed beside Dean. He hands Dean a pair of boxers but his limbs are too weak, arms tired from the strain of being behind him. His body feels like it ran a marathon so Dean shakes his head and rolls onto his side. He wonders if Castiel will let him sleep here tonight, he should have his strength back in the morning.

Castiel laughs as he pushes the sheets from beneath his and wraps them both in it, then he pulls Dean to his chest. He lets Dean use him as a pillow as he strokes his hair. Dean is too lost in the rise and fall of the man's chest to care that they are cuddling. His eyelids are heavy as fingers work through his hair.

"I am sorry though," he tries, voice already laden with sleep. "I tried, I just couldn't. I'm sorry." He moves closer and hooks an arm around Castiel's chest.

"It's okay. You lasted longer than I thought you would. It was strenuous, what I did. To be honest, I didn't think you'd make it through the first round, but you needed to be punished. You understand, right?" Dean nods, but he still feels guilty, not for coming early but for betraying Castiel's rules in the first place.

"I want to be a good boy from now on," the words leave before he can think about them, but he is sure he means them as he settles against Castiel.

"This, all of these rules, they build a sort of trust. If I can trust you to wash your hair and wear the shirt I leave you in the morning, then I can trust you to follow the rules I give you in here. I want you to trust me not to hurt you while you're tied up-I didn't, did I?" He seems to have real panic in his voice so Dean shakes his head vigorously. All of the marks Dean will brandish tomorrow will be his own fault. He should have relaxed more.

"Good, you're a good boy." He kisses the top of Dean's head and continues to run his fingers through his hair. Dean falls asleep wearing a smile.


	6. Rumors

The alarm sounds, a sharp bell that shakes Sam from his sleep. His hand searches out the sound, with his face still burrowed beneath his sheets. He finds the off button, taps it a few times and rolls to his side trying to fight off the haze of sleep that beckons him to stay. Sheets bunch around his waist as he sits up and rubs at his eyes, willing them to open against the harsh light of day. Day, Sam thinks, not the dark early morning, with its crisp smell and chill. He pushes the blankets away and hurries to his feet, which catch between the cotton fabrics, causing him to fall to the solid floor. He groans and waits for the pain in his shins to subside before standing again.

The sun shines bright through his window, a reminder that he probably missed half a day of school already. Sam turns to Dean's bed, prepares to wake him with an angry remark for not waking him up, but Dean is gone. Dean has been gone three weeks and Sam still forgets in the fog of sleep and panic that Dad kicked him out to the streets. Sam pushes his hair back, only for it to fall against his forehead again. The boy patters to the dresser and finds a clean shirt, wears the same pants twice this week and moves to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He needs more toothpaste. With the rest of the money Dean left he should be able to buy some, maybe a new toothbrush too, the bristles on the one he owns are bent out of shape.

Sam shakes his toothbrush over the sink, places it back on the shelf and rinses his hands beneath the water. He collects some into his palms, runs it over his face scrubbing minutely. Puberty is causing acne to sprout on his chin and forehead so he tries to keep his face clean now. He dries it with the end of his shirt, and remembers he needs to do laundry soon. Sam combs his hair, which is longer these days, his bangs tickle his eye lashes occasionally. If Dean were here, he would trim them for him, maybe he will when Sam sees him again. He drops the comb onto the shelf and leaves the bathroom.

Cereal is Sam's favorite breakfast because they are simple, lucky charms are the best in his opinion. This morning he is already late for school, though, lunch will be starting soon anyways. He can make it to school without breakfast. Sam pulls his coat over his shoulders, does the same with his backpack and rushes out the door.

Each morning, the frost sets in a little more. Sam's hands are dry, knuckles cracked from the chill and no gloves to cover them. He tries to keep them warm in his pockets and breathes in the cold air. Winter will come soon, Dad will have to let Dean back home if he thinks he has been alone in the cold this long. Sam brushes the hair from his eyes and picks up his pace to the school, a couple blocks and he will be there. If he is lucky, he will be on time to his next class and avoid a tardy-slip. He pushes against the wind and focuses on the steps he takes towards the school.

Perhaps Chuck has taken notes for him while he was away, he always did when Sam was suspended and this short absence should be no different. They have been friends since school began, met in science and bonded when neither of them could make sense of the curriculum, deciding they can figure it out together. Chuck hardly talks, other than to Sam and a few other kids, he becomes nervous around others and Sam understands. With people like Gordon and Crowley around a kid learns to keep to himself quickly, or they end up with a broken arm and a busted lip.

Sam rolls his covered arm around in the air scanning over the signatures. Two more weeks and he will be able to have the cast removed, regaining full mobility of his hand again. He forgot to take his pain meds today, but he thinks he will be fine. They make him groggy and focusing in class is difficult with them. He would rather put up with the short throb of pain if it means he can pass a simple vocabulary test.

Dad still has to pay the first medical bill, another will definitely put them into the hole, but Sam cannot help that his arm is broken. He thinks Gordon should pay their bill, or the school, maybe. Dean is trying, hustling at nights to make money for them both to relieve the strain on Dad, sometimes Sam feels useless not contributing to the family. Maybe one day, when he graduates college, he can afford to buy Dad his own house, something small to pacify him.

Sam turns the corner to the school, one more street to cross and he can get out of the cold. He jogs across the road, hops onto the curb, and begins a light jog to the school doors. All the other doors are locked during the day, therefore he will have to go through the main entrance, meaning he will not avoid signing in and have three late-days within two weeks. He begrudgingly pushes past the doors and tries to find comfort in the warmth that surrounds him. The woman who works the front desk is already sliding the clipboard onto counter as he walks toward it.

The woman is nice, but she has a face that always seems to be judging and it puts people off. After days of talking to the woman, Sam learned she has a daughter that attends school with him and he husband died years ago in a fishing accident. He has no one to talk to in study hall, so he has found other ways of passing the time. He would feel ashamed but the woman is kind and her daughter is cute. Sam signs the list and checks the clock for the time, a few hours late he observes. He sighs then writes the numbers in the box and slides the clipboard back to her.

"Three days is a detention Sam," she frowns and leans against the desk, arms folded over the counter.

"Yeah, I know." He chews on the edge of his nail, muffling his words.

"This isn't like you, something up?" She begins pulling out a yellow slip and filling the small paper out.

"No, just not hearing my alarm. Probably too used to it."

"Well, hopefully this doesn't happen too many times." She signs the sheet and hands it to Sam. "You can take a lunch or after-school, you're choice. Just circle it and show up on time, alright, kid?"

"No problem." Sam signs and circles the lunch option, that way if Dean shows up after school today he does not have to make him to wait.

Sam has a class still before lunch so he walks to his locker keeping track of the bodies hidden between lockers and ducking into bathrooms incase one of those bodies happens to have muscles and a knack for beating up gangly limbed, thin boys. Most students know not to stir too much to attract unnecessary attention if they do not want to be caught. The ones that wonder the halls with him are usually avoiding a test or meeting a guy in the empty corridor. Sam hates the discomfort of stumbling upon two horny teenagers the most, usually the boyfriend wants to start a fight too. Sam hates teenagers in general, he thinks, even if he is one.

He finds his locker and begins unpacking his backpack, throwing the books he will not use today in his locker and keeping the ones he will. He fits his backpack into the space and shoves his jacket in beside it. The sound of other students fills the empty space around him and school becomes comfortable again, even if he is late, this is the place he wants to be most days. Away from Dad's drinking, losing himself in his textbooks so he can forget that his life is a pile of rubble at the moment. Sam shuts his locker, disrupting the near silence of the hallway and shuffles along the tiled floor to his class.

As he rounds the corner he can see the bench Gordon and his crew usually sit around between classes, nothing special about it only that they dubbed it theirs. He moves a little slower, in case one of them is around and wants to start trouble. The slam of a locker resonates around the hall, followed by a put off slew of words makes Sam's heart punch against his chest. He finds a crevice between a row of lockers and a wall and slides between it and waits. He recognizes the voice that echoes off the walls, a red haired boy with a pointed nose and sharp knuckles, no one he wants to run into. Sam waits until the echo of footsteps dissipates before he moves out of his hiding place and continues his walk to class. Even with the bullies, Sam prefers to be at school.

With Sam's first class out of the way, his movements become sluggish. He half drags himself through the hallways uneager for detention. This is not his first, but he does not dread it any less, he would rather be suspended. Detention means a lecture and being quiet for an hour while he eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with the people he tries to avoid on a regular basis. His books are heavy in his arms, making him think he should start working out to build more muscle. Maybe then, he would be able to defend himself without Dean jumping in to help every time.

Sam stands outside the door to detention a few moments to prepare himself for the most annoying hour of his life. He sighs and pushes himself to cross the threshold and ignore the slew of taunts thrown his way. The advisor is late, probably in line waiting for lunch, which means Sam is in a war zone for a few minutes. The worst that a few of the boys come up with are slurs directed to his physical appearance, nothing Sam worries too much over anyways. He finds a seat near the front, closest to the door so that he can leave quickly when the bell rings.

A few paper balls are aimed at Sam's back and he bites back a complaint, would rather avoid a second detention if he can. Instead, he opens a notebook and begins reviewing his literature notes. They are reading Romeo and Juliet currently, one of Sam's least favorites. In real life, Juliet was probably some thirteen-year-old girl arranged to marry into some royal family, while Romeo was a thirty-year-old man, too old to fall in love with young Juliet in Sam's opinion. Juliet herself was too young to think about marriage, but he has to take a test on it tomorrow so he may as well study it.

Moments pass before a teacher comes, but finally Mr. Singer walks with a tray of food in one arm and a clipboard in the other. The taunts and aerodynamic paper stops when he places his tray on a desk and begins reading the list. He starts by reading off names, in alphabetical order, taking attendance. Sam is last. He raises two fingers at the sound of his name and keeps focusing on his notes. Mr. Singer drops the clipboard onto his desk and starts listing off the rules, no gum, eat lunch, no talking, no cell phones-Sam observes a blonde girl lose hers as Mr. Singer says it- and no leaving until the hour is up. Sam pats himself on the back for remembering to go to the bathroom before he came.

Mr. Singer takes his seat and begins eating, same with the others around him. Sam picks at his prepackaged sandwich disinterested. There is always too much peanut butter then he cares for and the edges are too dry while the center is frozen and moist from the freezer they are stocked in. The school should offer lunch choices, but then again he is in detention and perhaps the sandwich is another form of punishment. He eats most of the outer edges, after removing the sealed edge, and discards the rest into the package it came in then tosses it into the trashcan. He keeps his milk and sips at it while he works on a few homework assignments to pass the hour.

Fashionably late, Crowley strolls into the room wearing a smug grin. Mr. Singer rolls his eyes but, accepts Crowley's late slip then tells him to find a seat. Crowley picks the one beside Sam after tossing his sandwich into the garbage. Crowley casts a glance toward Sam a couple times, smirk bright on his face, it makes Sam's skin crawl. Dean mentioned Crowley could never mess with them, Sam assumes it is because Crowley hardly compares to even Sam in height but today he is cocky. Sam has heard of the schemes Crowley has pulled, people who talk to him usually end up owing him some sort of debt, he knew from the start to never consort with him.

As Crowley taps his nails against his desk, Sam tries to refrain from being angry and forces an intense study session. Next week, there is a test in science and Sam wants to know what a covalent bond is before then. He will have to conspire with Chuck to compare notes before then and fill in his blank spots. His own notes are too few to fill in the time gap between now and the bell so he spends another twenty minutes staring at a piece of paper while his hand doodles lazily. His paper is covered in swirls and cubes by the time the bell rings. Sam hurries to gather his belongings before skirting past Mr. Singer and darting out of the door.

"Sammy boy," he hears from behind him. He rolls his eyes because Crowley expects him want to talk to him. He continues his walk to his next class and tries to block out the annoying sounds behind him. A tug on his arm forces Sam to finally turn around and confront the shorter boy.

"I don't have time for you Crowley," he starts, eyes staring daggers through the boy.

"Oh, but I've been dying to find you and tell you the latest gossip."

"Let me guess, you lost your fortune and now you're going light side, gonna save the world or something?" Crowley rolls his eyes.

"No you giraffe, what I have is something better, something you're going to want to hear."

"Yeah, why's that?"

"Has to do with your big brother, one that skipped school three weeks ago. Hell, I hear he's skipped town.'

"Who told you that?"

"I know people. Want to know or not?"

"Spill whatever bullshit you have to say, I have class to get to." Sam is antsy now, being late to another class so soon will only result in another detention.

"Oh no bullshit here buddy boy, thing is your brother kind of ruined my life. Got my dad kicked out and now my mother is seeing a divorce counselor twice a week. Real balls on him, screwing my life around like that. Way I see it he better stay out of this town."

"You really expect me to believe that."

"Oh I haven't even gotten to the best part," Crowley chuckles and flattens his tie against his chest. "See, your brother is an all American whore, seduced my dad his first week into school I've calculated. That is when the money started to dwindle anyway. My dad was conned by that little prick and if I ever see that bastard again I'm going to rip his little head off." Crowley's voice has a growl to it, the anger is real but Sam has trouble believing the words.

"That's bullshit."

"Is it? Do you really know where he goes when he sneaks out at night? Says he's gambling or something doesn't he, we've had a few chats I know enough. Truth is he's been at my house two or three nights a month screwing my dad for money. Sneaks back in while you're napping away, he's good at it if you've never caught him." Sam can feel his blood begin to boil because not only has Crowley called his brother a whore, but what he is insinuating is a lie and Sam knows, believes Dean enough.

"Money probably dried up three weeks ago," Crowley continues. "That's when my father kicked him onto his ass, the night my mother caught them. Little whore ran with the money. Probably already found another sucker to trick too." That is a lie, Dean bought him groceries about two weeks ago.

"Shut up." Sam says through clenched teeth, jaw tight.

"Not my fault your brother's loose. I hear he does it all, real run for your money."

"I said shut up." Sam's hands itch to punch Crowley, or cover his ear, something to make the noise stop.

"I'd be careful being near him, never know what he might have, how many people he's been with." Crowley smirks wide enough to split his face and Sam needs to leave before he does anymore damage.

Sam turns on his heel and he can hear Crowley listing off positions Dean has been in, he talks about how dirty Dean is and says Sam should cut him out of his life if he knows what is good. Sam gets a few steps down the narrow hallway for the bell rings and he is already late for class. He grimaces at the sound of the bell echoing through the school and nearly stops dead in his tracks. Crowley is behind him again.

"Guess I'll be seeing you in detention again," Crowley laughs. Sam turns around and lands a good punch, hitting the boy on the nose. It feels good until his bad hand begins to throb with pain.

Dean kicks a rock across the sidewalk while he waits for Sam outside of the school. He comes most days now, when he is not too busy at Castiel's house. With Castiel's work schedule, Dean can usually find a time to sneak out while he is taking a break from chores and be home in time to finish them. He feels a little bad, disobeying Castiel after their session last week, but Sammy is his brother and he needs to see him. Not like Cas ever said he could not. Weekends are difficult, Castiel usually has a project for Dean to work on, like fixing the cabinet doors or repainting the basement. Cas usually has a commission, too, and needs Dean to help with taste testing or to clean the mess while he mixes new batches of flavors. Dean does not mind, gives him a chance to stop thinking or worrying and just do, and Cas usually gives him a couple dollars for his trouble.

Dean shivers and closes his arms around his chest, he should buy a new coat when he can. The one he owns has worn around the sleeves and there is a hole in the pocket. The zipper works sometimes, if he uses enough force when pulling it up and only protection on his head is the oversized collar that blocks his neck if he pulls it up. Sam's jacket is no better, a hand-me-down that is slowly shrinking on his growing frame. If Dean can get a few more dollars this week he will go to a local thrift store and find them better coats and, maybe some hats. Dean breathes on his palms and watches the door Sam uses to exit the school.

Sam is clutching a few books to his chest, slouching over them when he walks out of the building. His feet are dragging across the ground and Dean is sure he is scuffing his already shabby shoes. Sam keeps his eyes low enough for Dean to begin to worry, something bad must have happened at school today because Sam is never this sluggish, not even on his worst days. He tries to decide if he should be angry or concerned before Sam crosses the street to where he waits, but Sam has no new bruises so angry drops off the roster.

Sam stops at the corner of the sidewalk and peeks behind his bangs up at Dean, eyebrows knit together, but he keeps quiet. Dean begins to say a hello but then Sam nods in the direction of the apartment and Dean follows on his heel, concern growing even more now because Sam is only this quiet when something is bothering him or he is trying to keep a secret. Maybe a teacher said something, or the principal wants to have another phone call with Dad but Dean cannot find a reason as to why. He follows behind Sam and tries to smile when the smaller boy peeks around his shoulder to make sure he is still there.

At the apartment, Sam's demeanor does not change but Dean can see he is working it through in his head so he does not want to push it. He would rather wait for Sam to come to a conclusion on his own or work the words he wants to say into a neat paraphrase. Sam has always been so technical with his thoughts, probably why he gets good grades all the time. Dean begins cleaning around the apartment, washing dishes and sweeping the floor. Sam must be too busy with school lately to clean after himself, that or he knows Dean will take care of it. He will do anything to help Sam and ease the stress off his kid brother.

By the time Dean returns from emptying the garbage Sam has seemed to work up some courage. He abandons his books and papers at the kitchen table and sits on the couch with a serious look on his face. Dean almost begins to wonder if Sam is going to want to have 'the talk' but is too embarrassed to ask. Hell, Dean probably would not know what to say to him if he did. Maybe ramble off some facts about STD's he does know about and some wear a rubber slogans. Dad did the same thing when Dean was Sam's age, even gone so far as to pick some up at the free clinic down the road of the hotel they were staying in. Dean is pulled from his reverie when Sam begins the talk.

"Hey, I, uh, need to ask you something." Sam pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around his torso, long fingers pulling at the threads on the ends.

"Yeah, what's that?"

"I was talking to some guy at school, he uh, said some things and I don't know. I wanted to ask you before believing them."

Dean feels the room become a few degrees warmer and pulls at his shirt to re-adjust it. He drops in the seat beside Sam on the couch and tries to reign in the possible rumors Sam could have heard, wants to believe it is anything than what he knows it is. Maybe, though, just maybe Sam heard some stupid folk tale that Dean can turn down right away because Sam is always hearing about these stories. Like, how when they were in middle school, Sam heard about a ghost that roamed the halls of the school after hours and Dean had to be the one to coax him through nightmares and convince him it was a lie.

Dean cracks his knuckles and shakes out his hand when one pops wrong and stings.

"Yeah, what'd you hear?"

"It was just this stupid rumor but it just sounded not so made up, I guess." Sam chews on his lip and looks at his hands and his fingers pull a string loose, distorting a small portion of the pattern on the blanket. "I don't really know how to say it, actually."

"Well just spit it out Sammy, no other way than just saying it." Dean clears his throat and waits for the words he knows are coming.

"It was Crowley. He said something happened between you and his dad." Sam peeks between his bangs for a second time and Dean really needs to trim his hair again because it is unfair his brother can hide so easily like that. He swallows the lump in his throat and motions for Sam to continue, to get the words into the open air.

"He said, well, he said you slept with his dad. He was more brutal with his word choice, but he said you did it for money." Sam clears his throat and drops the edge of the blanket into his lap. "Dean, did you sleep with him for money?"

Dean should have known this was coming, Jo found out so quickly so it was only a matter of time before Sam did too. That fact does not stop the wave of emotions that choke Dean and prevent him from responding. If he says yes, Sam will know just what kind of guy he is and how low he will take himself for a few bucks. It was all for good though, to help Sam, feed him and keep the clothes on his back. The roof over his head would not be so sturdy if Dean did not bend over once in a while so Sam cannot hate him or blame him. If Dean says no, he is a liar but Sam will still have the big brother who has dignity and works hard to keep them living somewhat comfortably.

Dean shrugs his shoulders keeps his head bowed, face blank to keep the underlying emotions at bay. He can feel them like a tickle in the back of his throat, waiting for a moment to burst forth and bloom. Sam watches him and waits for a real response, electing to ignore the uncomfortable demeanor of his brother. They stay at a standstill, Dean picking at invisible dirt beneath his nails and Sam waiting. Dean can feel the answer working through his mind and opens his mouth to let it out but it gets stuck behind his uvula and he gags on it. Sam's expression turns from questioning to concern to surprise.

"Dean," his voice shakes. "You didn't…"

Dean nods and chances a glance at Sam but the shock masks any other reaction Sam may be having. He focuses on picking the dirt from beneath his nails again, he should scrub them when he finishes his chores or Cas will be upset again. Maybe he will leave them dirty on purpose. He waits for Sam's disgust to come, for the array of questions he may have. He waits for Sam to tell him to leave and not come back, just like Dad and Alastair and his girlfriend back in Ohio. From the corner of his eye, Dean can see Sam's jaw moving without words to follow the motion. He bites on a nail and begins tearing it down to the tip of his finger, grinding it between his teeth with the force of seventeen years of disappointment behind it.

"Why," Sam exhales. He clears his throat and picks at the strings on the blanket again, only peeking at Dean when he thinks he will get an answer. Dean spits the bit of nail he chewed off at the ground and wipes his hand on his jeans.

"Why what?" His finger burns from where the nail no longer protects the sensitive skin and he presses it to his thumb to keep the air from hitting it. He changes his mind and presses his thumbnail into it.

"Why would you do that?" He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, confusion growing on his face. "I thought the hustling was working? I mean, you said it was enough, Dean, why didn't you tell me it wasn't working?"

Dean shrugs his shoulders again because he does not know what to say to Sam. He cannot tell Sam about the first time, about the way he was scared and nervous and wanted to vomit and run. About the way Alastair's hands gripped him and held him tight against his skin and how he forced himself down Dean's throat, making him learn too quickly how to swallow him down. He cannot mention the way his heart raced in the little alley or how he thought for sure he would be another body to show up on the news. He remembers just how scared he was, thoughts so vivid he can taste the bile from when he vomited after Alastair was done. Then, he remembers that none of it mattered when he picked up the bills and held over one hundred dollars in his hand at one time.

None of it was so bad if he kept receiving an income, making feeding Sammy possible. He was desperate, too many people at the bar knew just how bad at pool he was and robbing him was easy, like stealing candy from a baby easy. He knew, Alastair knew, it just seemed to be the right move and Dean is unsure he would change it if he could. Dean pulls a pillow from behind his back and cradles it to his chest, curling around it, mimicking Sam's demeanor a near hour ago. He stays quiet and rolls the thoughts in his head, tries to find the right words to explain to Sammy that his big brother is just as lost as him. The sea of life cast a quick boat and he sailed in it, no matter how many holes in the shark infested water, he clung to it.

"It was all I had, Sammy," He croaks, wincing at the way his voice breaks and cracks reminding him of his own age.

"You had me and Dad. We could have helped. You could have told Dad and explained that we needed more money, that the job he had wasn't working out. Maybe he could have opened his eyes and started looking for something real and stable. You could have told me, at least. Instead of keeping this big secret that I have to find out about from a bag of dicks like Crowley." Sam is angry now and his words bite into Dean with razor sharp teeth. His clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

Dean could not tell them, Dad would have been angry that Dean spent the money too quickly. He would tell Dean that he needed to manage his money better, or stop spending it on frivolous items. No, Dad would not have found a better job or tried harder, he is too battered from losing Mom in the fire and he is not recovering anytime soon. Sam is too young to start handling Dean's problems, fresh into high school with a rapidly changing body. Dean cannot bare his problems to Sam, even if he wants too, because Sam is better in the dark. He can live knowing they get the money and Dean is a good provider, eat his lucky charms and go to school to get a real education.

"I think we both know that wasn't going to happen." He exhales, tosses the pillow to the floor and rubs his palms on his jeans. "I'm sorry Crowley told you, not because it wasn't me but because you know now. I did what I did, and it worked, and I'm not sorry about that. I gotta go, I can't sit here anymore." Dean pulls a bill out of his pocket and drops it on the couch from a shaky hand. "I'll see you later, Sammy." He pulls his jacket tight around him and walks towards the door, pulling the knob to have the door stick to the frame. He tugs a little harder but the door will not budge, the damn frame must be swollen from all the rain.

"What about his dad though? I mean is Crowley really not gaining his inheritance or being let into the company." Dean tugs the door knob again, hands too weak to budge it, he feels like he is straining himself more than usual and all he is doing is opening a damn door.

"His dad is a fucking pervert," Dean tugs the door again, finally ripping it from the frames hold and slams it behind him as he exits. He shuts it hard enough to know that Sam will have trouble opening it if he tries to follow.

The humidity has warmed the air from its previous chill but Dean still shivers as he walks on the grey earth. Clouds have overpowered the sun but Dean is sure there will be enough light for him to walk alone, back to Castiel's house. Back to the only job he is good at. He quickens his pace and lets his jacket open with the wind pushing against him. His shirt is shrinking on him, he can feel where the wind knocks against his hipbone and chills him, he shivers, teeth clattering but makes to move to shut the jacket. He would rather feel the chill, reminding him of just how lonely he is most nights.

When Dean returns, Castiel is still at the restaurant probably serving high class couples before they get engaged. He slips out of his jacket and into a pair of loose fitted sweatpants and a grungy shirt, forgetting the clothes Castiel set out for him to wear. He has no problem ruining these clothes and he still needs to finish dusting the living room and cleaning the den. Most days, Dean hates being Castiel's maid but today he needs a distraction, something to forget that his younger brother now knows how dirty he really is. Dean holds back the wave of emotion that tries to escape, promises himself that he can get through this without lowering himself any more.

Castiel arrives home late, mentions that he had to wash dishes because one of their dishwashers quit during the middle of the day. They just needed extra hands and he was around to help. He has changed out his work clothes into a pair of pajama pants and a shirt, matching Dean. He claims he had a long day at work and just wants to relax before he cooks dinner, never mentions Dean's bad behavior, but does not run his hands through his hair the way he normally does when he comes home. Dean does not mind that dinner will be late, he has not been hungry since his visit with Sam and wants to do much of the same. They sit in the den watching a movie neither of them are interested in until Castiel gets bored. He starts nudging Dean and asking him what he wants to do instead, but Dean just keeps his eyes glued to the T.V. wanting to forget today and sleep through the next week.

"Dean, look at me." Castiel is all orders lately, hardly touches Dean when he does not need to, not since he left him spent in the bedroom. He wonders if he is bad enough Cas might find a new punishment for him, start giving him orders. Dean refuses a glance in his direction and focuses harder on the television.

"Dean," Castiel practically growls and Dean cannot help but look this time, eyes meeting the man's for a moment before focusing on the space between them.

"Look." Castiel's hand cups Dean's chin and turns it to face him. "Why are you being so ornery today? Something happen I should know about?" He looks over Dean's expression, trying to read him and Dean feels exposed. He shrugs and shakes his head, tries to turn to watch the movie again but Castiel will not let him.

"No, something happened. What was it, what did you do?" Castiel looks around the room as if examining for a broken vase or out of place magazine.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me," Castiel uses the same gravelly tone from a week ago and Dean cannot fight the words from spilling out of his mouth.

"I visited my brother, he knows I'm a whore," he mumbles, hoping Castiel has difficulty hearing him over the television.

Castiel looks angry again, eyes narrowing, but not at Dean, at the dead space around them.

"What are you talking about?" He exhales through his nose and releases Dean's jaw. Dean wonders if he can watch the movie again but Castiel's hands on his hips say otherwise. He follows the movement of the man's hands until he is seated in his lap, staring down at his chest. His fingers play with the edge of his shirt and for a moment, it feels odd to be touching Castiel like this, but he finds he does not mind, not really.

"Some prick at school, son of a guy I fucked told him I was." Castiel pushes a hand through Dean's hair, ruining the style he created that morning. "Everyone knows, except my dad. If he knew…" Dean shakes his head and rests it against Castiel's chest.

He used to do this with John when he was younger. John would come home from his job, disappointed he did not make enough so Dean would crawl onto the couch beside him and rest his head against his chest. He would tell Dad that it was okay, everything was going to be okay, but he knows better now. Dean feels the sob wrack his body and inhales sharply, trying to reign it in. One of Castiel's hands passes through his hair and rubs his back. Dean can hear him whisper.

"It's okay, it's going to okay. It's fine." That only makes Dean cry harder, tears spilling down his cheeks onto Castiel's cotton shirt. He should apologize and go to his room but Castiel keeps rubbing his back and whispering these promises to Dean. For once he just wants to believe. He should have commands, though, something brutal to remind him of how low he is.

"You want to sleep in my room tonight?" Dean nods but his limbs are too heavy to moves. Castiel wraps the boy's arms around his neck, one by one, and carries him to his room.


	7. Learning

Dean wakes in a cocoon of blankets snug around his naked body. He takes a moment to remember where he is, what has happened. He is in Castiel's room, underneath his blankets, a whole burrow of them. He does not remember being so tangled in the sheets before sleeping so Cas must have tucked him in before he left. Early morning hours are a blur to Dean. His eyes are difficult to open, dried tears have tacked them shut and he needs to wipe them before he can see. Castiel is gone, probably at work already. The boy finds himself eager for Cas' return, then he can finally get the punishment he deserves.

He tried last night, after crying for what felt like hours while Cas shushed and held onto him, did all he knows to make Castiel angry. The bait was not good enough, the man only continued to refuse him. When breaking rules was not enough to rile him, Dean tried seduction, slipping out of his clothes and pressing his naked body against the man, only to have Castiel deny him. He tried to make Castiel touch him, remind him that he still has the body he admires. All the places he used to kiss are the same. Castiel snatched his hand away and threatened to tie Dean's hands but, not for the reasons he wanted. He cannot remember if Castiel is angry, after struggling and crying all night he fell asleep face down ass in the air trying to get Cas' attention.

Dean should dress in the clothes Castiel left, the soft, yet tight, polo he always leaves. He has one for each day of the week, varying in patterns and small-embroidered logos. Sometimes he will have pants for Dean to wear, very rarely. He usually does not mind if Dean wears a tattered pair of jeans about the house, as long as they are not sweat pants, they are too casual for his taste. Dean looks around the room, eyes searching for the familiar material he has seen every day for weeks now, nothing looks similar though. He wonders if Castiel left one in his room, thinking he would return there. He would check but his body still aches with the sinking depression in his chest, so he hugs the blankets to his chest and closes his eyes. He drifts to sleep with hopes of a better dream life.

Sam is the first person he recognizes in his dream, his hair a tousled mop on his head, bangs hanging low in his eyes. Dean hardly remembers that he is ashamed to be around the boy when he smiles bright enough to blind him. They exchange a hug, not the quick kind that hardly lasts a second, but the kind that requires strength and steady breathing to pull through. Sam is strong, his arm without a cast, tugging him in close, closer as he closes his eyes and sinks into the familiar scent of soap mixed with boy. He misses how close and he Sam used to be, now Dean spends so much time covering his own lies that he finds it difficult to concentrate of the moments he shares with his brother.

The next person he sees is Mary, all ethereal glow and long blonde hair. Sam lets go and allows Dean to pass by him. Dean feels the tears well in his throat, so much it burns when he swallows. His strides are long, covering expanses of land but Mary continues to shrink and disappear before him. He starts to run, to chase after her but the light pools around her, distorting her image, what a shitty metaphor, Dean thinks. He can feel the burn in his calves as he continues to race across the field, something he never noticed until now. His feet are bare and he can feel the twigs snapping below his feet, knows they are bleeding in areas but he has no time to stop and mend the, he has to catch mom.

The light shines, blinding him so much he needs to stop and shield his face with his arms. He hates to surrender so easily, he can hardly keep his eyes open enough to focus on her disappearing figure though. Soon, she is gone, only a whisper of her voice in the wind for Dean to catch and hold onto. He never wants to forget the way she says his name, or hums the same tune she sang to him every night. The lyrics fade away, Dean finally opens his eyes when the words are a distant memory.

Looking down, Dean notices he is at the edge of a cliff so he turns to step away from the ledge. John stands before him wearing the smile from before Mary passed away, the one that reaches his eyes. Dean chokes on the sob that shakes through his body, beckoning him to release it and give in to the sorrow that has become his life. He reaches out wanting to be near the John before the booze and prolonged absences, just like Mary, John only moves further away. Dean's feet are stuck to the ground when he tries to move, when he looks down there is nothing binding him but gravity.

Dean looks up again and John is in front of him, his smile distorted making Dean cringe. John laughs the same laugh when Sam was born, then presses his finger tips to Dean's chest and pushes. He feels weightless, floating through space while gravity shifts around him and softens the fall. The concrete that catches his head feels all too real, making him groan and rub the back of his head. Blood, his hand is covered in blood causing his eyes to widen in panic. Sam is there, cradling him in his arms, hands caressing the tender spot on the back of his head.

"You should have let us catch you," he says. Repeatedly until the dream fades away to a quickly forgotten memory as Dean fights for consciousness.

He wakes again in a pool of light pouring from the window. The blankets stick to him uncomfortably, as his body is damp with his own sweat now. He pushes the fabric away and revels in the relief fresh air brings him. Now he can stretch his arms and legs, free of obstruction caused by the comforter. His knees pop and elbows creak as he stretches them, feeling the pull of his aching muscles relax a little. Exhaustion weighs heavy on him, but he has slept too long, already awake and alert for the day. Blankets slide to the floor as he pulls away from him, standing uneasy on his feet, he hunches unable to support his self.

Naked, he reminds himself, needs to find the clothes Castiel left for today. One hand cups him as he shuffles along the carpet, then steps unevenly up the narrow staircase. Dean stumbles into darkness and remembers there are no windows in his tiny room. He finds the light switch and tugs the flimsy cord, Cas needs a material stronger than weak string, he will tell him to go to the hardware store to find an appropriate switch. His room is just as bare as he left it yesterday, just his duffle tucked beneath the bed, an empty closet, and the furniture that came with the room. He pushes a hand through his hair and feels it stand in place, he must look a mess and reeks of sweat.

Deciding to shower, he grabs the towel he keeps in his room, the softest one Castiel owns and he is not ashamed that he hoards it. He throws the towel over his shoulder and steps back down the steps, unashamed to be unclothed this time. No one is home so Dean is going to take advantage of the free feeling. His foot catches on the bathroom rug so he kicks it away and promises to fix it later but he is always tripping over the damn thing. He drops his towel and turns the dial to the shower, getting a good temperature ready as he finds the appropriate materials in Castiel's cabinet. He keeps most of them under his sink, which Dean thinks is pointless when he will always be transferring them to the shower. He sets them on the shelves hanging from the shower wall and catches something he had not noticed before.

A note on the sink, must be a list of chores he suspects, holding the paper between his wet fingers. He wipes them on his chest but hardly manages to dry them, settles for holding the bare corners of the paper to prevent further damage. Castiel has sloppy handwriting, with the control he exerts Dean expected a neat, formal manuscript but Castiel is all loops and curves, at times smudging together so Dean has to squint to read them. What he thought was a list is actually two simple phrases, _no chores today-dress comfortably_, Dean reads them again to make sure he is correct. No faulty in paper though, he thinks, today he is going to dress comfortably. He smirks at the idea of walking around naked, but decides that will not do, not for a whole day.

Dean showers, brushes his teeth and combs his hair, he does not style it just removes the tangles. He changes into a pair of boxers but the rest of his shirts still need washed, since Castiel has been handing him a new one each day, he has neglected to do his own laundry. He bites his lip and gingerly crosses into Castiel's room as if the man is waiting there to catch him. He tugs drawers open, one by one searching for a shirt drawer. He pushes through articles of clothing, neatly tucking them back into place when he does not find what he wants. When he finally finds the correct drawer, he picks out one of Castiel's sweaters, a long one with a simple block stripe pattern that drapes over him comfortably.

Without chores, Dean does not know what to do. He could watch a movie or listen to the stereo and write, but none of that sounds fun. They are distractions for when he is unwinding, not helpful enough to keep him busy. Dean paces lazily throughout the house, a back and forth stroll while he thinks of something to keep busy. He passes by Castiel's china and admires the gold trim on the plates and bowls. He admires the crystals he has collected in a separate cabinet, everything is so delicate in Castiel's house. Dean is not delicate, he does not cry and does not get to be treated as a piece of glass. He will show him.

Dean stops pacing when he enters the kitchen, Castiel left him a bag of breakfast bagels and spreads in the refrigerator this morning. Normally Castiel harps about bagels not being a real breakfast, not unless he makes them, so Dean wonders why he is giving him a treat today. Never the less, he sits at the table and opens the containers, spreads one of the bagels with one-half strawberry, half regular, then does the same to the top half. He eats them at the table and cleans his mess when he is finished. Cas left no dishes for him to wash, Dean frowns down at the sink and realizes he truly has nothing to do with his day.

Normally, Dean would visit Sam, but with Sam finding out information from Crowley, he would rather avoid another confrontation. Maybe in a week or two when Sam needs money again and Dean cannot avoid the issue, but for now Dean is going to avoid it like the plague. His kid brother does not need to know about his sex life or that he is willing to bend over for a few dollars. Even now, while he is staying with Cas, knowing that he is paying him for sex serves no purpose for Sam. Dean, without thought, rinses a rag under the faucet and begins to wipe the already clean counters.

He thinks he should stop there but his arms have plans of their own, grabbing the broom from its closet and sweeping barely there crumbs. Then he mops the floor, runs the vacuum, dusts the living room, and dusts his own room. He has exhausted himself by noon and stops for another snack break. His normal serving of baby carrot sticks with dressing or the small salad Cas sometimes makes for him is missing from the refrigerator. He searches around the fridge, but finds nothing to stand out as specifically for him, perhaps Cas forgot this morning. Maybe this is Dean's punishment, no snack.

He remembers the note and knows Castiel said he had the day off, at the same time he only began to follow Cas' rules. He wants to prove to the man just how good he can be. Dean searches through the drawers in the fridge, the one Castiel normally keeps his fruit in, a few apples and peaches roll around so he grabs the peach. He runs it under the tap, wiping away invisible chemicals before biting into it, he makes a sour face but continues to bites through the skin. He can be good, he knows he can. He swallows the bite, forcing the second bite past his tongue. Not that he hates the taste, just knowing it is healthy and he will be hungry in a few moments makes it difficult to stomach the food. When finishes eating the fruit, he tosses the pit in the garbage and pats himself on the back. Now, he can continue with his chores, Castiel may not have left a list but Dean knows most of them by heart now, the ones Castiel makes him do daily.

He straightens up each room, taking his time to scan for any article out of place, then sets them right again. Today he is determined to polish and shine every inch of the poorly designed house. He finds the window cleaner and takes the time to go over the insides of the windows first. He wipes a paper towel around each edge of the window frame, being sure to dust off the sill separately. Then he makes the trip outside, slipping on a pair of Castiel's pants and shoes as he does, they are much too big on him but he does not mind. The clothes feel nice against the brutal autumn wind. Once he returns to the comfort of the man's home, with his heating, he sheds the pants and shoes again. He begins to miss the feeling of the fabric against his skin, wearing the man's clothes messes with Dean in a way he cannot explain.

Dean cleans the bathroom. He scrubs the bathtub until the shine blinds him, he cleans the sink and pours a solvent to clean the drain. Same for the tub. He scrubs the toilet clean and shakes out the small rug to sweep. Once he is finished, he empties all of the trashcans around the house. Garbage will not be for another few days but Dean is on a roll so he drops the bags in the can behind the house. When the bulk of the cleaning is finished Dean still feels antsy, needs do something, anything. Cas needs to know how good he can be.

The boy settles on the couch and waits, finding difficulty in sitting still. Nothing else can be done, the entire normal list of chores is completed and Dean has scrubbed nearly every surface of the house. He feels he knows the house on an intimate level now, having dusted along its banisters and scrubbed its floors. He squirms on the couch, hands fidgeting with the hem of Castiel's sweater. He wonders is Cas will think he is bad for wearing his shirt, maybe he will find a punishment for Dean, one he will get right. No matter how tough it is, he will please Castiel this time. He has to.

Dean crosses his legs and holds them as he waits on the couch, watching the clock tick down the time. He picks at his nails, the dirt removed in his morning shower so he only succeeds in clacking his nails together, knowing they are due for another trim. When the tone of the grandfather clock sounds, vibrating through the house, he squirms on the couch, anticipating what Castiel has in store for today. The possible punishment he has lined up excites Dean a little too much he thinks, trying to sit still. His behavior has changed drastically since he started living in the man's house, it worries him at times how easily he submits. Castiel mentioned he was teaching Dean, training him, he still needs to ask what that means.

The door creaks open and Dean fights the urge to meet Castiel at the door. He is just so eager to do right, to prove how good he can be. He sits in the den and pulls the edge of Castiel's sweater over his thighs. He should have worn pants, too late now he guesses. He hears the rattle of the man's keys as he pulls them from the lock, and then pockets them. Dean wonders if he brought take-out or if he will make them dinner tonight. His stomach rumbles and he remembers the fruit he had as a snack, the trial he put himself through just to eat it. Cas would be proud though, knowing he followed his rules and took initiative even when he did not order him too. He rubs over his calves and warms them against the draft brought in through the door.

Castiel walks past Dean, a bag in hand, as he goes into the kitchen. Dean feels disappointment sit in his stomach, but fast food will be just as good as Castiel's cooking he supposes. He lifts from the couch and stands at the entrance to the kitchen, watching as Castiel separates the contents of the bag. He got Italian, Dean assumes from the smell, stacking the containers on the counter, and then dropping the bag into the trash. Dean walks into the kitchen, shoulders hunched, and head ducked. He feels embarrassed or nervous for reasons unknown to himself. Castiel never looks, just continues to dish out servings onto plates, old dishware with a scalloped edge and small design in the center. He wants to say hi, ask how Castiel's day was but he cannot figure how to string them into a coherent sentence.

Dean stands near Castiel, smelling autumn air on the man with how close he is. Castiel turns to look at him, Dean waits for the feel of his hair through his hair but it never comes. He knows he was bad but he needs the attention, an incentive. Dean slides to his knees on the tiled floor, going slow to prevent further bruising on his pale skin. His hands reach around one of Castiel's thighs, lean with muscle he finds as his hands press against it. He strokes his thumbs over the smooth material of his work pants and rests his cheek against it. Never before has Dean been this close to Castiel, feeling the man's warmth against his cheek soothing him.

"What are you doing?" Castiel's voice startles him, makes him gaze up at the man.

"I want to be good for you," his voice is almost a whisper and he can feel the red tinge his cheeks.

"You don't have to, not today." Castiel says, hands cutting up some sort of meat before sliding a slice onto a plate. Dean watches them, hoping they touch him soon.

"I want to." His hand slides up the smooth material, up and up over corded muscle until Castiel jerks his leg away. Dean catches the edge of the counter to prevent falling.

"Wait at the table. Dinner will be ready soon." Dean nods and hides his disappointment. A sleeved hand covers his face as he sits in the chair, the seat is uncomfortable, always is, but he got his first order for the day and refuses to ruin it.

"Is that my sweater?" Castiel squints at him as he takes his seat, placing two plates on the table.

"Yeah, sorry," Dean blushes, then smirks, gears turning in his head. "Want it back?" He lifts the sweater, grabbing the back to pull it smoothly up and over his head. He folds it loosely and offers it back to the man. Castiel's eyes travel over his body a moment, Dean hides his pride. He knows the man is looking, refusing the urge to touch his goose bumped skin.

The kitchen is cold, Dean can feel how hard his nipples are, knowing Cas notices them too. He rubs a hand over his chest in an attempt to warm the skin. Hand resting on his pectoral he watches Castiel's face as he slides a finger around the shape of his nipple before touching it. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger as Castiel swallows and almost spears the table with his fork. He moves away from the pink skin and pokes at one of the bruises on his collarbone, Castiel has a knack for marking as often as possible. Some are faded and need replaced. The man clears his throat and pokes at a piece of chicken on his plate.

"No, keep it. It's cold."

Dean frowns, the man has such an unbreakable will that Dean decides he needs to try harder. He pulls the sweater back over his head and resolves to eat his dinner for now. Later he will find a better way to gain the man's attention. For now, the chicken in good, sits well in Dean's stomach, along with the pasta that accompanies it. Vegetables though, Dean has a tough time eating them, mostly pushes them around his plate like a petulant child. Remembering he is a good boy, Dean scoops them into his mouth. He has to switch between chicken and veggies to get them all down. He swears he sees Castiel smirking at him.

Castiel is busy reading an article from a National Geographic, Dean finds it hard to believe people read those for fun, he assumed they stopped printing them years ago. After dinner, the pair settled in the living room for a change of scenery. The living room does not have a television or stereo, only comfortable furniture that Dean can sprawl out on lazily. He watches Castiel from the corner of his eye, can see the clock behind the man's head and bites his lip as the minutes tick away. Dean still needs to break him and get him to touch, run fingers through his hair, or spank him, anything to show that he notices Dean. Cas is on this, _not today, maybe tomorrow_ fix that Dean was sick of when he woke up. He needs to show Cas that he is okay, that they do not need to take breaks just because Cas thinks Dean is fragile.

Dean crawls across the floor, where he has been laying, until he is staring at Castiel's knees. The man's face is concentrated on the article he is reading so Dean thinks it is a good opportunity to surprise him. He starts slow, nervous when his palms smooth up the man's legs for a second time. His legs are parted just enough for Dean to fit his body between then, so he does. One of Castiel's hand bats him away, but Dean persists, running his hands down the length of Castiel's thighs urging the man to pay attention to him.

"Dean, stop." He tries, still focused on his magazine. Dean leans in and presses a kiss to a clothed thigh, does the same to the other.

"I said stop," but Dean can hear the change in his voice, knowing he is aroused by this. He kisses further up his thigh, as far as he can reach with the couch pressing into his stomach, acting as a barrier. Castiel huffs and drops his magazine to the side.

"Stop," his voice is weak, but his hands are strong as they grip Dean's wrists and hauls him to his feet, forcing Dean to look down at him. Dean can see how exhausted Castiel is, should probably stop before the man gets angry but he feels so close now. He leans down and presses his lips to Castiel, tongue eager against the man's chapped lips.

"Dammit, Dean." He groans. In a swift move, he turns Dean around and forces him onto his lap. Dean hardly notices his arms wrapped behind his back until he tries to move them with no give. "It's like you want punished or something," he mutters under his breath. Dean stills, body rigid as he hears Cas gasp, hands tight over his own.

"Is that what you want, to be punished?" His voice rumbles through Dean. He nods and half turns to look at the man, a plea in his eyes.

"Yes." Castiel manhandles him again until he is back on the floor, bent over Castiel's knee.

"I gave you today off, you know. There's really no reason for me too." He rubs Dean's back and the boy practically arches into his palm, feels so good to be touched.

"Doesn't matter." Dean's arms lay trapped between his chest and Castiel's thigh, his hands gripping into the fabric as he waits for the man to do move.

"Oh." Oh, is damn right, Dean thinks. His hips grind into Castiel's leg, showing him just how needy he is right now. Dean gasps when he feels Castiel's nose pressed to his cheek, breath ghosting over Dean's neck and ear.

"I don't want to hurt you." The words sound innocent as they drip out of his mouth. No, never, Castiel never wants to hurt him, that is why they have taken so long to get this far. Dean bites his lip and stifles a complaint.

"Do it anyways." Dean groans as Castiel's palm slides down his back and smoothes over his boxers. His fingers find the elastic, Dean shivers as the air chills his skin, and pushes them down his thighs until they fall easily to the floor. His palm rubs the smooth skin as Dean tries to anticipate his next move.

"Tell me to stop if it's too much." Dean nods but expects he will not, never does. Castiel is harsh commands but executing them is a different story, his hands are always gentle and his bite never as rough as his bark. "You okay?" Cas is being so cautious today, checking that he is okay every moment, as if his answer will change, it annoys Dean. He pulls up his shirt to expose himself a little more.

"Yeah, come on already." He rests his head on Castiel's thigh, jerking back up again when the first smack lands against his ass. A groan catches in his throat and Castiel takes a moment to rub the sore skin.

"Still okay?" Dean nods and Castiel wastes no time landing another blow on the opposite cheek, rubbing it the same.

"Okay?" He is hesitant now, hand hovering over him, almost afraid to touch. Dean practically has to arch into, just to feel his warmth again.

"Fuck, yes, just keep going. I'll tell you if I'm not." Dean grinds his teeth and drops his head on Castiel's thigh. He relaxes minutely before Castiel lands another blow to his bottom, not taking the time to rub the tender skin this time. Instead, he lands the second smack right away, making Dean buck into his thigh with the force of it.

He is hard between his legs but tries to ignore it in favor of preparing for the next set of smacks. Castiel is hitting harder now, hard enough for Dean to really feel it, even as Castiel moves his hand away he can feel the shape of it on the round flesh. He arches and gives the man more access, urging him to continue. The next to smacks have him rubbing against Castiel's thigh, moaning as his cock catches on the fabric of his pants delicately. He hears himself cry for more, feels like he is asleep, in a dream. Dean digs his nails into Castiel's thigh with the next smack, moaning louder, grinding harder.

He is going to come, feels it building with each smack the man lands. A moment of realization sets on him, reminding him that they are in Castiel's living room, the room he spent all day cleaning. On top of that, Castiel has expensive furniture, it may be ugly but Dean is sure he spent some hard dollars on the couch. He grunts with the next smack and grips the base of his cock, holding off his own orgasm.

"Wait, stop. Stop." He groans, pushing away from Castiel's thigh, wincing when his bruised skin touches the floor.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" Castiel picks him off the floor, back to his lap, hand smoothing his hair from his forehead. He is sweating, feels exhausted when he really did nothing. Castiel cups his face and waits for a response.

"No, no. Well, yeah, I'm a little sore but that's not the problem." Dean shifts his hips so he can sit comfortably in the man's lap. "I, uh, didn't want to come on the furniture." He ducks his head and moves his hands aside to reveal how hard he still is.

"Oh." Castiel is short phrases and no grace today, Dean almost wonders if he is okay. He wants to ask if he had a bad day at work, but saves it for a later time. Castiel lifts his chin to look him in the eyes before leaning in to kiss him, slow, almost chaste. His lips are a whisper on his own, taking their time to explore every inch of his mouth. When Castiel licks into his mouth it is not with a hungry appetite, as usual, this time he tastes Dean's mouth slow. The kiss feels like deeper than normal, Dean tries not to read into it as he kisses back languidly.

"What do you want to do know?" Castiel asks, wiping the spit off Dean's bottom lip with his thumb. Dean laughs and rests his head on Castiel's shoulder.

"I would like to come, if that's alright," with that, Castiel wraps Dean's legs around his waist and lifts him off the couch. Dean stifles a moan as he rubs against Castiel, focuses on how easily the man carries him up the stairs to his room. Dean will never get over how strong Castiel is, manhandling and lifting him with grace. Not that he is a heavy kid, after years of skipping meals for Sammy he knows he could stand to gain a few pounds. He dips his head to reach the man's neck and sucks lazily, leaving a few marks before Castiel eases him onto his bed. Dean kicks his boxers off his ankles and waits for Castiel to make the next move.

"How do want it?" He asks, shedding his grungy work shirt. He has another in his hand but holds it in case he should wait to put it on.

"I don't know." Dean never picks, just goes along with what comes. He racks his brain to think of what he wants, all he knows is he wants release, but needs something to tip him over the edge now that he has restrained himself.

Castiel drops his shirt on his dresser and pads over to the bed, it dips where he rests his knee to crawl up the mattress. He hovers over Dean, one hand stroking his exposed hip while the other brushes his hair away. Dean needs to cut his hair soon, Dad would have his ass if he knew he had bangs almost as long as Sam's now. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the thought of John out of his brain. Castiel soothes the thought away easily, kisses his cheek, then his nose and his chin. Dean cups the back of his head and pulls him down for kiss. He leaves him breathless.

"I want, I think, fuck me, maybe?" Dean tries, one eye gauging Castiel's reaction. Until now Cas' fingers have only been in him and he knows the man has to be dying for it. Not once, since Dean has moved in, has Cas come. Not that Dean has seen, at least. He wants him to, wants them both too. Castiel rests on his knees and stares down at the boy. One finger trails up Dean's shaft, and then swirls around the tip eliciting a moan from him.

"I'm not sure you will last long enough." He reaches into his nightstand for lube. Dean is caught off guard a moment, not expecting Castiel to give in so easily.

"Do it anyway." He lifts his hips and allows Castiel access to his hole. Castiel slicks up a finger and rubs against the tight ring, pressing against it gently.

"You sure this is what you want? After last night I thought-I don't…"

"Forget last night, please. Just do this, its okay, I'm fine." Dean is unsure he is but the words feel real, rolling off his tongue. Maybe because Cas has a way of making Dean feel less like an object and more like someone to take care of. The way he strokes so gently, presses his fingers into Dean with ease, worrying he will break him if he adds too much too soon. Dean groans as Castiel's fingers open him.

"I can't just forget." Castiel whispers, leaning down to place kisses along Dean's jaw as his fingers work the boy open. Dean gasps, a small sound escaping his throat, as Castiel sucks new marks on his neck. They will be harder to hide from Sam, but Dean could not care less. He bends his neck to give Castiel easier access.

"You were so broken, don't want to see that again." Castiel adds another finger and begins scissoring Dean open.

"Wont." Dean is too wrapped up in the feel good to create coherent sentences, he presses against Cas' fingers searching for more.

"No, because you're mine. I'll always take care of you." Castiel adds a third finger, releasing a drawn out moan from Dean. He digs his nails into Castiel's back, not worrying if he leaves crescent shaped marks.

"All yours," he says between gasps for air. "Please, Cas, I'm ready." He whimpers, when Castiel pulls his fingers away, he feels empty. Castiel needs to shuck his pants first, dropping them to the floor with his boxers. He digs a condom out of his drawer and rolls it on, lubing himself.

"If it hurts, tell me to stop. Don't take too much at once." Dean relaxes when he feels the tip press against his hole, wants this to feel good for once. Castiel moans as he slides in, a slow decent, stopping when he worries he is hurting Dean. He peppers his face in sloppy, wet kisses, coaxing him to relax for him. Dean wants to tell him he has, that it already feels good but his mouth only works to lets out a string of curses as Castiel bottoms out. He is still, waiting for Dean tell him to move.

"You alright?" He shifts his hips minutely, making Dean gasp and arch. His clings to Castiel's shoulders, sleeves of his sweater making his grip slip, refuses to remove it though.

"I'm not a virgin, remember?" Castiel strokes the side of his face and begins to move, a simple rocking motion.

"No, but you can still be hurt." Dean knows, feels it run through his core before he shatters. It was coming, he knew, felt it when he woke up, felt it all day. His arms beckon Castiel closer, so he can grip him properly as the man pumps into him steadily. Fucking Cas, with his concerns and nimble fingers whispering praise into Dean's skin with each touch. Fucking Cas always wanting to know if Dean is okay, should he stop, give him a break, let him breath in the overwhelming sea that seems to always be pulling him under. His already slow pace comes to a crawl and he finds leverage on the bed and hovers over Dean, thumbs wiping the stream of tears from his cheeks.

"I can stop."

"No don't," Dean practically begs, pushing down on the man's cock. "Please, just…don't stop okay." He repeats it, a whisper coaxing Castiel to pick up rhythm again. He still works slow, gently rocking into to Dean, worried of breaking him again.

"You have to talk to me, Dean." He sounds breathless now, grunting when he picks up pace.

Dean tries to find some words to describe it, that he feels it now. Maybe it is the moment, the intimacy of having another person inside, but he never felt like this with anyone else. He feels like Castiel cares, actually fucking cares with all of his commands and rules. The reason why his touches are soft caresses instead of rough, unless Dean asks for it. His compliments and the phrase, that phrase he always says when Dean does something right.

"Tell me I'm good. Say it, I need you to say it," he probably sounds like a kid, voice broken, practically begging.

"You're good, you're so good for me Dean. Always such a good boy." He thrusts harder now, a shift of his hips until he hits the spot, the one that makes Dean throw his head back and scream through tears and the emotion welling in his chest. He whispers, tells Castiel not to stop in case he might. He is almost there, feels it in his gut.

"You're beautiful, not just because I'm inside of you either." Castiel is rambling now, but Dean does not mind. He pulls him back, grounds him from escaping to his make believe world he is so fond of living. He wants to be here, to feel every inch of Castiel pressed against him.

"Such a good boy," he whispers against Dean's collarbone. He grunts when he comes, knows he covered Castiel's chest as well as ruined his sweater. He clenches around Castiel, pulls him closer to his own orgasm as he comes down from his own. Castiel swears under his breath, hips jerking and Dean knows when he comes too.

They lie still a moment, both recovering slowly. Dean wipes the tears from his eyes, curses himself for crying again, during sex too. Only teenage girls do that. Castiel climbs off him, pulling his sweater over his head. Dean wants to burrow beneath the blankets but worries about ruining another set of Castiel's sheets. He waits instead, for Castiel to return from his bathroom with a damp cloth. He cleans both of them, returning the cloth to the bathroom afterward. Castiel lifts him, drops a kiss to his forehead, then pulls the sheets up to his chest. He slides in on his side, curling up beside Dean, his long arm winding across his body. Dean presses into him and enjoys the warmth that spreads through him as he does so.

"You okay?" He is a little sore, pride dampened as well.

"I need you to quit asking that." Castiel chuckles.

"Anything else you need?" He shifts so he is level with Dean. He can look at him better that way.

"Yeah, actually," Dean says, after a moment of hesitation. "I need you to pet me." Castiel drops his hand to his hair and runs his fingers through the tangled mess, face serious as he does so. Dean exhales and relaxes against the man's side. "You don't have to do it constantly, but once a day. Maybe."

"That's fine. This is important to you then?" He pushes Dean's hair back, teasing the ends with his fingertips. Dean nods. "Every day, then."

"I just can't have you not touch me. I don't know why, I need it though. Once a day, at least."

"I trained you well." Castiel whispers, places a kiss to Dean's hairline.

"You're gotta tell me what that means someday."

"You'll learn."


	8. Challenge

Weekends consist of a kitchen full of pastries, flour littering the floor, water spilling over the sink and the smell of baked goods filling the house. The kitchen windows are open to let out the heat from the oven, while the chill of near winter air freezes the rest of the house. Oven timers echo through the halls along with the sounds of drapes whipping in the wind, plastic spoons scraping metal bowls and mixers stirring batter. Icing is dripping from a plastic bag when Dean enters the kitchen with a mop and broom to clean to floor for the third time today.

Working on the weekends is a ballet of sorts, Dean skirting around Castiel with a broom, as Castiel sliding ingredients back and forth, so Dean may wipe the counters. They have a sort of efficiency that Dean has begun to pride himself on. He sweeps the floor, reaches all the nooks between counters and below the stove, always finding a batch of crumbs or an empty bag of sugar that missed the trashcan, which needs emptied again. Once the mopping is complete, Dean will squeeze the water out of a rag and wipe the counters clean of raw egg and squashed berries, Castiel prefers to use real fruit for his flavors.

Occasionally, if Dean cleans the mess correctly, Castiel will let him sample the product-one miniature cupcake per completed chore. Dean has eaten three today and aims to call it even there, too much sugar makes his stomachache. Besides, he would rather save his appetite for the lunch Castiel will cook today, a chef salad with real chicken. Dean cringes at the thought of eating cherry tomatoes for the second time since he moved in, but the chicken Castiel cooks causes Dean's mouth to water at the thought alone. He is distracted somewhere between emptying the trash and polishing the silverware, another one of those unnecessary tasks. Castiel brings him back to earth with a brush of fingers to his temple, a smile to ease him back to reality.

Castiel remembers daily to find some form of physical gratification for Dean, petting, kissing, simple touching, just to remind Dean that he is his good boy. The best is when they sit down to watch a movie. Castiel pulls Dean's head into his lap and plays with his hair, twisting pieces into braids, only to let go, watching as the strands unwind, then start again. When his blunt nails scrape the back of his head Dean will begin to relax completely, needing to be wakened and ushered off to bed. He sleeps in Castiel's bed most nights, usually too exhausted after what Castiel has planned for him to walk the few steps to his own room. He never complains, only tucks the blanket around him and holds him until they sleep.

The ease with which Dean fell into this routine concerns him most days, always wondering when cuddling became acceptable, especially with the man that pays him for sex. Not that it feels the same as when he moved in, when he just wanted Castiel inside him for the cash. It has become something more in the last few days, Castiel nurturing Dean like a wounded animal. He resisted, an attempt to keep his pride, but eventually gave into the weight of Castiel's arms wrapping him into hugs and soft kisses on his cheeks. With Castiel, it does not feel like a job anymore, he feels settled here, all the while Sam is stuck alone fighting to raise himself.

He feels bad most nights knowing Sam still has to put up with bullshit, living with Dad and hardly knowing when the next meal will come, and it will, Dean takes care of that. Even if they are barely speaking lately, he is sure to leave a few dollars under the door along with a note saying he is doing fine. Sam never leaves a reply, but the missing tape on the door tells Dean his little brother is alive. When the guilt swallows him, Castiel hands soothe him, pulling him to the surface with a caress of his cheek or rub on his back. He knows the words to say to take the stress away, whispering them in his gravel voice until the need to sleep steals Dean, pulling him into a dream world.

Explaining the mess he is in to Castiel is still a trial, he covers the surface by saying he needs to feed his kid brother. His dad leaves on trips, never saying when he will home, so Dean needs to keep earning money. He offered, the day after Dean cried during sex, if Dean wanted to switch to chores only, said he would feel terrible knowing his brother needed a new coat while Dean gave his body to pay for it. Dean wants to tell him he does not care anymore, let him know that he started enjoying it weeks ago but saying it means something new that Dean is unsure he is ready to admit.

The press of Castiel's lips to his own reminds him that he is standing in the kitchen with muddy shoes. He kisses back quick, then bends to untie his laces, setting the shoes on the steps outside before returning to the task of forcing decade old silverware to shine. Some of the designs are intricate, swirls and shapes that fit with the rest of the furniture. Dean follows the instructions Castiel gave him earlier that day, makes each spoon sparkle before returning it to the drawer it belongs too. He wonders if he will be that spoon someday, even if he cannot shine he wants the drawer he belongs to, the nook he can hide in easily within the house built for him. Castiel fixes a strand of his hair absentmindedly before slipping a sample of lemon into his mouth.

"That's a good one, just like that." Dean licks the sticky icing off his lips.

"Help me decorate these, they need to be finished in," he checks the oven's clock. "An hour. We need to hurry." He fills another bag, Dean is sure it has a name other than plastic bag that makes decorating easy, with icing and places it into Dean's hands the way is supposed to hold it.

He pulls his hands over a rack of cupcakes and tilts the bag at an angle. He moves the boy's hands as he gives the directions," Just swirl it, pull up, and move on. These aren't anything too complicated so you should be fine." He guides Dean's hands to do a few more before pulling away completely, observing how Dean handles the task on his own.

"Good, good boy. Just like that." Dean smiles as he ices in the same fashion, cupcake after cupcake. He is always good with the orders Castiel gives him, beaming with pride when he does well on the first try.

The time passes and Dean's arms get weaker with each swirl, no wonder Castiel is so strong, he thinks. He pulls his bag away to admire his handiwork while he rests his arms. He can see Castiel working feverishly, finishing rack after rack of pastries. He looks good in an apron, hair ruined from the heat of the kitchen, sweat covering his forehead. Castiel has muscles, real ones that show when he flexes the small amount it takes to squeeze the end of the bag, unlike the soft meat around Dean's arm. He is so focused, soft eyes tracing the movement of the nozzle as he works. Dean needs to continue icing soon or he will work himself into trouble. He returns to his rack and focuses on the swirl motion until he is lost in the repetition.

When they finish icing, Castiel stacks the cupcakes in the back of his car and rushes off to deliver them. He has another batch to finish today, an order from an elderly woman that lives nearby. She orders a batch each week because she knows Castiel needs the extra work. Most of the other costumers he has are friends of hers, her children or comrades down at the bingo hall. All the cupcakes are baked and are cooling now. Castiel intends to cook lunch first, then work on whipping up an icing just for them, a special cherry flavor with real cherries, nothing artificial for the woman that treats him so well.

Dean is cleaning the kitchen while Castiel is away, sweeping and mopping all over again. What is truly daunting is the stack of pans and mixing bowls that need cleaned. Dean curses his position as housewife on weekends more than anything. Castiel will be making that delicious chicken when he returns, though, and that is incentive enough for Dean to turn on the tap and soap up a sponge. He scrubs each pan until burned batter, stuck to the edges that spilled, has chipped away. He makes the bowls shine, so pristine he can see his reflection in them.

Finished with cleaning, Dean is exhausted. He groans when he remembers there is one more batch of cupcakes to decorate. Castiel says they require a more complicated decoration, as this batch is a special treat for the woman's granddaughter, so Dean is not allowed to assist. He does not mind, turns out icing a bunch of pastries is more work than he anticipated. His arms are sore from a day full of cleaning, resisting movement when Dean tries to lift them. He slumps on the couch and vows to move never again, body aching all over begging to become one with the sofa.

While he lies, he thinks about Sam, wonders what he is doing right now. They have not spoken properly in days. For all he knows Sam is doing shitty, lying in a ditch while Dean sits in a clean house and eats cupcakes. He will have to get over his fear of Sam knowing his little secret and check on him, just to put his mind at ease. Dean really does hate not knowing how Sam is. He misses hearing his little brother talk about school or the grade he got on his last report. He may be a little nerd but he is Dean's little nerd brother, he should be there more than to slip him money and retreat before he is caught.

He wonders if Sam would try to find him if he really needed to, he left a number on one note, just in case Sam got into real trouble. Hell, maybe Dad is back, or has been back for a while now and Dean does not know. He could be grabbing the money right from under the door and using it to drown himself in booze until he cannot see straight. That only succeeds in causing Dean to worry more, Dad has come at him a few times when he drank too much, that and Sam being feisty around him naturally makes Dean's palms sweat. He will go back, look Sam in the eye and answer the questions he may have, he just needs a little time to get his thoughts straight, to get himself straight.

Castiel should be home soon, Dean needs to stop attempting to morph with the couch or else he will never stand up again. Too late, he thinks, when he hears the twist and push of the front door against the carpet. He groans, body determined not to move as he rolls over to look at Castiel. He looks almost as exhausted, stubble thicker than normal, bags heavy beneath his eyes and spine curved slightly, contrasting to its normal erect manor. He lets out a groan of his own as he slinks onto the couch beside Dean, lifting his head so that it may rest in his lap. His fingers trail lazily across his neck, just the tips so they tickle behind Dean's ear.

"I'll make lunch soon." He promises, running his other hand over Dean's shoulder.

"Kay. Gonna need help?" He curses his helpful nature.

"No, you look like you could use a rest."

"True that." He uses his arms as a pillow on Castiel's lap, careful not to elbow the man in the stomach.

Castiel rubs Dean's back, fingers working over the kinks in his spine. A heavy sigh escapes Dean's lips as Castiel begins working the tension out of his shoulders. His hands rub with the perfect amount of pressure before moving between his shoulder blades. He moans and relaxes his shoulders so Castiel can reach the area better. Dean hears a breathy laugh from the man and finds he is smiling as well.

"You make good money this time?"

"Great money. Tip as well, it's yours, for all the assistance today." His hands move lower, working the tension out of Dean's lower back. "Do you think you will need more?" He asks after a pause.

"Good f'now, thanks." His speech is lazy now as he fights against the urge to sleep. That chicken is still in the fridge and Dean wants it badly. Castiel laughs again, it rumbles through Dean where he rests against him. Castiel's hands move towards the center of his lower back and press beautifully.

"Oh, right there."

"Spoiled," Castiel laughs.

He continues to massage, making sure to rid of all the kinks and sore muscles before he rests his hands. Dean enjoys the moments when Castiel will unwind, spending time on repairing Dean in between the sex and punishments. The breaks help him recuperate until he is sure he can go for another scene, Castiel says that is what they are called- the different scenarios he thinks up for Dean. He feels he still has much to learn.

A few of Castiel's fingers tickle Dean's side, making him squirm enough to gain the man's attention. He tilts his head down to get a good look before tickling the area again. A laugh rumbles through Dean before he can catch it. Castiel attempts to tickle him again, only to have his hands pushed away. Dean covers his sides with his arms and attempts to burrow into the couch, away from the man's fingers. Castiel laughs, stilling his hands on Dean's back, choosing to caress the fabric of his own sweater instead.

No more polos for Dean, he prefers the soft flannel of the man's sweaters or the thick knit material to keep warm as winter approaches. Castiel prefers him in his clothes, Dean thinks the man gets a thrill out of possessing him in small ways. He curls into him, feeling his warmth spread through his body like a current running through a socket, bringing him to life. He yawns and pushes off the couch, begrudgingly, before offering a hand to the man.

"Let's make lunch." Castiel considers this a moment, before grabbing Dean's hand and pulling the boy back into his lap.

"Later, my feet hurt. I'm not as young as I used to be," he laughs. Dean laughs into the man's neck, warm air blowing back over his face. Castiel tilts his head for Dean to rest gently in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Dean kisses the skin there, stubble scratching his lips.

"Any plans for tonight?" His backaches thinking of the position Castiel had him in last night, back bent, legs thrown over his shoulders. It felt good then, but now he is sore and his muscles beg for a break.

"No. I think we could both do with a good night's rest." Dean nods and breathes in Castiel's scent, a cross between watermelon shampoo and a crisp aftershave.

"Definitely." Dean kisses down Castiel's jaw until he reaches his throat and nibbles at the skin there.

"Dean." He grumbles.

"Hmm?"

"Are you messing with me?" Dean pulls off Castiel's neck a moment to realize his hips have been working lazy circles for who knows how long. He is half-hard with no real intention of getting off, he just feels frisky today, wants to please Castiel in some way.

"Shit, sorry. Want me to stop?" He brings his hips to a halt, they twitch and try to move on their own. He slings his arms around Castiel's neck and rests his chin on his shoulder, an attempt to calm down.

"It's fine, it's nice. Just don't expect me to do anything. Too sore." Dean's hips pick up their lazy movements again, slowly rubbing against Castiel.

"Yeah, no problem."

The friction from his jeans feels nice, enough to keep him hard but he doubts he will come like this. He just likes the feeling, the pressure building with each shuddering movement against Castiel's lap. The angle is strange and soon he has to change it in order to apply the right pressure. He sighs contentedly when he gains friction against the man, feeling how hard he is against him. He ruts a little harder, smirking when he catches the hitch in Castiel's breath, then hands grab at his hips just holding him as he moves.

His movements become less about simple pleasure to an erratic, need-to-come grind of his hips against the man. His whole body moves as his hips roll, hands gripping into the fabric of Castiel's shirt until he feels his boxers dampen with his release. He rides it out a moment, before releasing his grip on Castiel's shirt and sagging against him to catch his breath. When he peers up at Castiel, he has a smile on his face that makes Dean want to hide.

"You're beautiful," he breathes out, brushing sweat matted hair away from Dean's forehead.

"Thanks." It takes all of Dean's will power not get up and run. Instead, he slinks down Castiel's lap and tugs at his waistband.

"You don't have to do that," Castiel says, hand pushing Dean's away.

"I want to." He pushes through Castiel's hands, popping the button open and pulling his boxers down the few inches it takes him to be free.

"No, I mean you don't have to." Sure enough, the front of the man's boxers is wet with his own spunk. There is a lot too, slicking down his shaft in pearls.

"Oh." He thinks a moment before leaning forward and lapping his tongue over the man. The taste is bitter, but he keeps licking, sucking him into his mouth to claim every drop with his tongue. He pulls back, wipes his mouth, and then replaces Castiel boxers.

"Fuck, you're beautiful." His hand is a little rough as it pulls through Dean's hair.

"So I've been told." He smirks. "You gonna make lunch anytime soon?"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Don't be a brat."

Thursday morning Castiel decides Dean needs to learn a new lesson. He has the day off due to a scheduling error at the restaurant and intends to use it wisely. He spent most of the morning raving about how his manager is an idiot and someone needs to replace his job soon. Dean is baffled about the idea of someone hating an unexpected day off, but to each their own. Castiel woke him early that morning, handing him a clean pair of clothes for his shower. He is allowed to wear another one of the man's sweaters. Castiel has a stockpile of them hidden in his drawers he claims he never wears anymore so he lends them to Dean on the colder days.

When Dean asks about his punishment, after his shower, Castiel refuses to clue him in on the details. He only tells Dean that he has been a brat all week, pulling at the man's clothes or asking him for special favors. Dean knows he does not mind his advances, really, he is looking for an excuse to execute a new kink and Dean is okay with that. After breakfast, Castiel informs Dean they will be leaving the house for his punishment, which makes Dean uneasy because as exciting as public sex sounds he would rather they both avoid jail, or worse being spotted by someone Dean knows. Castiel assures him it is nothing terrible and no one he knows should be able to see them, as they should all be in school this early in the morning.

Dean rises above his fears and suspicions, strapping on his seatbelt, because Cas insists he wear one, and waiting anxiously as they drive through town. As they drive, Dean spots the mall in his peripheral, when Castiel makes a turn, heading straight for the entrance he begins to sweat. Maybe Castiel just wants to buy him new clothes, he has been wearing all of his sweaters and his jeans have holes in them. He had to buy the polos on his own after all, maybe he needs Dean there to get the correct sizes this time. No matter how he tries to rationalize the situation Dean still feels nervous about the idea of being in public with Castiel and knowing, he is getting a punishment as soon as they pass the entrance.

"So, about this plan you got for me. What is it again?" He voice breaks a moment, latent puberty striking again. He cringes and waits for Castiel to say the words, just buying clothes, or need new work pants.

Castiel pulls the car to a stop, turns off the ignition and unfastens his seat belt. He is wearing a devilish grin as he opens his door and beckons Dean to follow with a wave of his hand. Dean unbuckles his belt, nerves making his grip on the release button slip. He trips out of the door, embarrassed a moment, but thinks whatever Castiel has planned will probably be much worse. Castiel waves his hand again, forcing Dean to take the few steps until they are standing side by side.

"I want you to hold my hand." He offers his hand.

"We covered that I'm not a child right? Not like I'm gonna run off, if I was I would have done that long ago. You know that."

"That's not why we're doing this." His fingers twitch, and indication for Dean to do as he says. He takes his hand, blush spreading over his cheeks. He knows he has to be a sight for anyone in the near vicinity. If he is lucky, only the oldies are out this early.

"Then why are we?" They begin their walk to the front entrance of the mall, the blush widening over Dean's cheeks, spreading across his neck. He begins to sweat more, a reaction to his own embarrassment that only makes matters worse.

"Everyone will know you're mine, Dean. Also, that nice shade of red you're turning is worth the stares we are bound to get." He laughs when Dean grumbles. He begins to pull his hand away, only to have Castiel's hand close around it.

"Oh no, this is your punishment. You have to hold my hand the whole time we are here." His smirk grows wider as the frown on Dean's face grows deeper.

"Better not be anyone I know here." He complains.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll buy you a nice gift for your troubles."

He winks and Dean only feels more put off by the adventure. This gift is bound to be another one of Castiel's secret kinks. He just has to get through this day, he tells himself, about half an hour, hour at the most and they can leave. Palm already sweating, he fights the urge to wipe it on his jeans.

"So, what if I let go at any point?" He swallows thickly, waiting for the answer.

"Oh, you won't." Castiel's tone is enough to make Dean squeeze his fingers a little harder. He deserves a medal for what he is about to endure.

The first step through the doors of the mall has Dean quickly wanting to dash through them again. Castiel gives his hand a squeeze of reassurance and a look that says his punishment for failing this task will only be worse. He smirks something self-righteous and leads Dean down the first corridor. The mall is separated into sections with the large stores at the end, a food court, and small shops between. The corridor they are currently in houses the gift shops and little trinket stores that no one really buys anything from, except guys who forgot anniversaries and parents who forget birthdays. All the people who go inside do is wander around aimlessly, staring at hand crafted little objects or reading funny cards to each other.

Currently, the shops are mostly empty, a few scattered parents buying late birthday presents. None notices Dean or Cas as they walk, hand in hand, into the smallest gift shop. Dean exhales a sigh of relief, his gift is probably in this shop somewhere and they can leave, practically as if they never came. Then Castiel smirks at him, a little shift of his head that says, no, he is wrong about his guess. Dean swallows thickly, if Castiel makes him walk into every shop while they hold hands he might not make it. He is already a substantial shade of red and thank goodness for air-conditioning or he would be sweating through his sweater leaving visible marks.

Castiel pulls him around each isle, stops at a shelf of stuffed animals only a moment before moving to the rack of glassware. Dean's fingers caress the edges of a glass angel, her wings are see through and she has little glass pebbles shaped into feathers. Dean thinks she is a pretty figurine, not that he is into that sort of thing, but someone worked hard on creating her. He appreciates hard work. Mary would have loved her too. They move to an isle of gag books, with some real valuable ones mixed in. One in particular catches his attention, a book that lists the bullshit laws in different states that Dean knows Sam would love. He pats his pocket for some money and remembers he left everything at home. Cas must notice his dilemma because he grabs the book and strokes the side of his hand with his thumb.

"You want this?" He asks, almost incredulously. Dean is not offended; he never showed interest in much of anything while living with the man so he understands the confusion.

"For my kid brother, Sammy." He flips the book over in the man's hand and points to a few of the stupidest laws. "He said he wanted to be a lawyer once so I think he would like this." Castiel nods.

"I'll get it."

"I can repay you when we get home."

"You don't have to do that. You're doing enough for me with this." He lifts their palms. Dean still feels guilty for having the man spend money on him.

After the gift shop, Cas takes Dean to a various other shops. Most of them are small with only a few people. The itch to let go of the man's hand lessons with each shop they enter. Hardly anyone pays them any special attention, except the workers who are quick to throw the popular product of the week under their noses before they get two feet in the store. It stops feeling strange, almost normal, their hands start to fit comfortably together enough that Dean fidgets less and less. Each shop they pass through, Castiel finds no gift for Dean and he wonders if it was all a fraud to make him hold hands.

Near the end of the trip, there are only so many shops to wander through, Dean wonders why he was even worried about holding the man's hand. They are nearing a row of shops, mostly woman's clothing stores in the area they are in, when Dean begins to relax. Why would Castiel even choose this section anyways? Probably just to drag out Dean's punishment longer. Then, Castiel stops in front of a large shop with pink decorations all throughout the interior and Dean goes stiff again. No way is this man forcing him to walk through Victoria's Secret while they hold hands. Castiel glances at him, smile as evil as sin as he begins walking through the entrance, Dean thinks he swallowed a gallon of sand.

His once alleviated blush is back in full bloom, spreading over his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He fights the urge to cover his face when Castiel gives him a pointed look, telling him not to. When Castiel said this was a punishment, he meant it. A few women in the shop tuck the panties they are holding back onto their racks, blushing as well when Castiel walks by holding Dean's hand firmly. A few younger women giggle, hands covering their smiles as they whisper to each other. They are cute too, not that Dean cares, but it makes it that much harder to keep his grip on Castiel's hand. He wishes Castiel would make his point so they can leave already. Instead, the man stops at the only abandoned rack of lingerie and gives them a contemplative look.

In front of him are thongs and box shaped panties, a few cut into small shapes that Dean believes could never fit a real body. There are frilly ones with ribbon all around the back and a few with suggestive words written across the back. Most of them have a little heart that says the word pink, Dean hates those ones the most. He tries to look away and pretend he is uninterested, if this man wants to buy girl's panties, that is his prerogative. Castiel gives him a smirk and turns Dean's retreating glance back to the rack.

"You're shitting me." Dean has never even seen the man in girl panties. If he wants to do this now, then he should man up and go alone instead of dragging Dean with him.

"I want you to pick a few pairs."

"Listen, if you want to wear frilly underwear that's cool, but I'm not gonna sit here and help you decide." Castiel laughs heartily a moment.

"Oh no, these aren't for me." Shit, then that means.

"You want me to wear these?" His eyebrows could shoot off into space with the amount of shock that courses through him. The man actually wants him to wear panties, he has not done that since, well since the last girl he slept with. He laughs at the memory.

At the top, just high enough that everyone will notice him grab them is a pair similar to the ones she asked him to wear. He laughs again, quickly tugging them off the rack to examine them in his hand. Rhonda. That was one hell of a night, he remembers. He rubs the material under his hands, not as soft as the pair she gave him but still nice. Castiel is staring at him expectantly and Dean remembers he is in a public store holding onto a pair of girl's panties. He fights the urge to drop them and run.

"Uh, this girl," he starts, clearing his throat. "Rhonda, we used to mess around a year back, maybe. She, uh, she asked me to put on a pair of her underwear, they were pink and satiny." He lowers his voice for anyone that might be near. "I kind of liked it."

He rubs the material of a few other pairs between his fingers, testing the material. Most of the pairs in front of him are cut too short to hold all of him so he has to sacrifice buying the silky ones for the more reasonable pairs. He buys the pink ones, they have a lace finish around the edge that he likes, and another pair in blue. Then he grabs one all lace pair, remembering all the girls he has been with and how nice they always looked in lace. They are white so Dean will have to be extra careful with them he thinks. Castiel is smiling incredulously as they walk out of the store, Dean knows his enthusiasm was unexpected and fells good knowing Castiel is probably already hard imagining him in that little pink number.

As an added treat, Castiel takes Dean to the food court and allows him to pick his favorite place to eat lunch. Dean is having a craving for something healthy and when they end up at Subway he knows his life is upside down. He feels like Alice but has a hard time remembering when he fell down a hole, plus there was no rabbit to guide him under either. He almost feels cheated on that part. He saves a seat while Castiel orders their meals, it is the first time their hands have been apart since they arrived at the mall and Dean feels a little less complete without the extra weight of the man beside him. He tries to suppress his disappointment and smiles when Castiel returns with a tray of sandwiches and a cookie just for Dean. He does not miss a chance to inform Dean that his are much better.

After debating the qualities of Subway cookies and store bought desert Castiel resigned to cook his own cookies for Dean. It came at a price though, so now Dean is standing in the kitchen, naked except the pink panties, which strain to hold all of him in, and an apron. He thought it would more enjoyable if he was completely naked but Castiel insisted he try them on, then after seeing him, decided he will be buying more for Dean and that he should write down the kinds he likes so he may buy the correct pairs. Dean is more than okay with that, boxers may allow him to be free but the way the cotton is snug against his ass and his dick strains feels good. He is already hard and all he has done is prepared the oven.

Castiel is combing through recipes trying to find his best one to prove his point to Dean. He is adorning an apron of his own, and as a fair trade for Dean's earlier humiliation (that he may or may not already be over), has taken his own shirt off. If Dean had trouble focusing last weekend, today he is a mess. Castiel is all toned abs and carved muscles that Dean finds troubling. He leans against the kitchen counter and tries to compose himself for the instructions that follow. Castiel instructs him to grab the correct utensils, a mixing bowl, spoon, fancy spoon that measures perfect cookie balls (it has a name but Dean thinks fancy spoon is a little more accurate), and pan for the cookies to bake on. Then Castiel reads off the ingredients as Dean pulls them one by one from the fridge, eager to finish because the cold from the fridge is worse when he is practically naked.

He follows Castiel's instructions on how to mix the separate ingredients, it all sounds so complicated coming from the man though. He asks for precise measurements that makes Deans hands shake, worried he will slip and add too much peanut butter and ruin the whole mix. Castiel does not let him mess up, his hands hover over Deans when he worries he will spill too much oil in the measuring cup, even helps him stir the mixture when it becomes too tough for him. Castiel has techniques for everything he does and Dean gains an appreciation for the work he does.

Finally, the mixture is complete and Dean can begin scooping the dough onto the pan using the fancy spoon. Castiel laughs when he calls it that, corrects him once and decides fancy spoon is a nice enough name. Castiel stands beside him and aids in the process. Dean is not eager for the treat, mostly enjoys the time with Castiel. He may be wearing pink panties and an apron, ogling the man beside him but underneath the surface, Castiel is teaching Dean to cook. The man who gritted his teeth anytime Dean touched a special pan while washing dishes let Dean use his special tools today and taught him how to bake cookies.

Of course, the moment does not last too long. Dean is still being punished today, he remembers when two of Castiel's fingers pull the back of Dean's underpants to the side, one finger trailing up and down until it slips easily in his hole, already prepped.

"You little snake," he gasps.

"Thought you might want me ready." He smirks and bends at the counter enough to give the man better access. He pulls his apron into a bundle while one hand moves to hold his panties to the side for Castiel. He slips a second finger in easy and Dean bites his lip. He is so hard already and Castiel pumping his fingers in and out at a snail pace is pushing him to the edge. He drops his apron to grip the edge of the counter, white knuckled as Castiel's fingers twist and push past the knuckle. He thrusts a few times before the phones rings and removes his fingers, leaving Dean feeling empty. He shivers at the loss of contact when Castiel turns to answer the phone.

"One moment," he sounds just as wrecked as Dean. He can hear him pick up the receiver from behind, fighting the urge to palm himself as he waits. This is a punishment, reminds himself, and he will be a good boy. Castiel's hand on his shoulder makes him jump before he turns to the man, his eyes are serious as he hands the phone to Dean. He is confused, the only person that has this number that he knows is, shit, Sammy.

"Hello? Sam, you okay?" He tries to school his voice but the worry fights through.

"I don't know. Something happened and Dad's not here. You're going to need to come here Dean."

"I'll be at the apartment in," He checks the oven timer and curses under his breath. As if on cue, Castiel turns the oven off, pulls the barely cooked dough out the rest and grabs his keys. "Give me a few minutes."

"Yeah, except don't go to the apartment."

"What, why? Where are you?" He really is concerned now, heart racing as he rips the apron off his chest and races into Castiel's bedroom to grab his discarded clothing.

"The police station. Dean I swear I didn't mean-" The rest is cut off when Dean drops the phone and charges down the steps, pants half on, nearly tripping over himself.


	9. A Temporary End

**Authors Note:** Like the chapter title says, this will be a temporary ending. I've been busy with school lately so I haven't been able to give this fic the attention it needs. I'm going to end it here right now, but when I find free time I'll pick back up. I'd like to develop Castiel's character more and maybe have a different ending, this is sort of abrupt and not so good at all. Sorry.

* * *

Dean is in the police station before he has enough time to realize his feet have been moving for the last minute. Sam in sitting huddled over himself with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Dean sighs a relief because if he has a blanket then he is probably a victim here and not in trouble, which Dean doubts would be the real reason anyways. Sam is a good kid who goes to school daily and keeps his nose in his textbooks. Now Dean can panic because if Sam is in the police station then something else has happened and he cut the line with his younger brother before he could catch a reason. Dean marches across the row of desks until he is standing a few feet away from Sam, but when he tries to keep walking an officer throws an arm over his chest and asks for a name.

"Dean, Winchester. That's my brother over there and I want to make sure he's okay."

"Yeah, just hold on, he's probably fine we just can't let you back there without verifying that you're related." The officer stops a moment and turns to Castiel as if expecting something and Dean's heart races because he forgot he brought the man that pays him for sex with him. He schools his face and tries not to reveal anything. He is still a minor but the age of consent has to be sixteen, he thinks, hopes.

"You are?" The officer holds up a notepad prepared to take down a name.

"Castiel Novak. Not related, but a close friend of their father." Castiel turns to Dean with an eyebrow raised, almost asking if the cover story is an okay one. Dean dips his head a little, a subtle nod he hopes the cop does not notice.

"Well Mr. Novak, Mr. Winchester, go take a seat over there." He points to a bench too far from Sam's. "We'll need to talk to both of you once we've finished questioning Sam."

"Woah hold on." Dean charges a little too close to the cop. "Questioning, is he a suspect in some case or something?"

The officer takes in a breath and eyes Sam as Dean watches him for a hint of anything that will clue him into what is happening. Sam just shrugs his shoulders, a movement that looks to difficult for him and Dean knows something is wrong, Sam is lying to him and they are five feet away. This can only be bad so Dean takes a step back and tries to relax his shoulders.

"Listen, he's my little brother and if something has happened to him I need to know."

"First, I need you to calm down. He's fine, the circumstances we found him in were questionable so we need some information first. Then, we can decide the outcome of today. Please take a seat and everything will be resolved." Dean really hates robotic answers like that, no real insight to what is happening at all and he needs information. Sam in sitting, legs folded to his chest and head resting on his knees, Dean knows he only does that when he is scared or worried and his hands twitch to wrap around him and make it better. Questionable circumstances, Dean thinks, meaning Sam was probably alone and John is out somewhere doing whatever it is he does. This is it, Dean thinks, someone found Sam alone and called the cops to report neglect. A guy walks by and escorts Sam into a room with shutters on the window so Dean cannot see.

"Son of a bitch." He tries to keep his voice even as he moves to the bench the cop pointed to earlier and sits ungracefully on the hard wood. Castiel takes the seat beside him, leaving only a few centimeters between them. Dean likes it, the closeness keeps him calm as he tries to keep his hands from reaching over and touching Castiel. Instead, he claws into his jeans and tries to stop the possible scenarios from running through his head, Sam was attacked, someone broke into the apartment and Dean was too far away to stop it, Sam did something illegal, Sam's involved in a murder case. He leans forward and cradles his head in his hands, feels a headache coming.

Castiel's hand on his back is enough to pull him back to the present and he thinks a thank you but his mouth stopped working. He presses his palms together and rubs unconsciously, the simple motion enough to keep him aware of what is happening around him. He cracks a few knuckles and tries even harder to crack the ones that resist the pressure of his other hand pressing against them. He tries to watch the clock but that only makes time move slower. He needs a distraction but his recent method of disappearing from the real world for a moment requires a bed. Castiel hand rubs lazy circles on his back so he tries to focus on that.

A half hour, hour later, a cop returns with Sam and points to where Dean and Castiel are sitting. Dean tries not to look too eager as he closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Sam's waist. Sam's hands are light on his back, and Dean worries that Sam is still upset with him for storming out. He holds him tighter and tries to erase the memory of it, hopes that the way his hands grip into Sam's flannel reminds Sam that they are brothers and Dean will always take care of him if he needs him.

"Dean." He finally says. His arms stay tight around Sam as he waits for what he has to say. "Dean, I appreciate this, really do, but I actually can't breathe." Dean lets go and apologizes, hands lingering on Sam's shoulders.

"What the hell happened Sam? You look like you're a recovering drug addict." Sam is shaking, blanket wrapped tight over his arms. His face is drawn, as if he has not eaten in a few days and Dean wonders if he has. Dean begins to think maybe his brother is coming down from some drug, maybe the cops found him that way but Sam is good, he knows not to do that. Dean taught him better. For the first time, he notices Sam's missing his cast, he must have gone to the hospital while he was away.

"Um, can I get a hot chocolate or something first? I don't really want to be here anymore." He tries to smile, a broken laugh coming out and Dean breaks against it.

"Yeah, sure thing Sammy. Cas you okay with going out somewhere?" Castiel nods and pulls his keys from his pocket.

"Don't the cops have questions for us?" Dean looks at Sam then back at Cas.

"I don't see anyone coming to get us, do you?" Castiel shakes his head. "We'll be back, let's do this first."

"Actually, now that I think about it, you might want to talk to them first." He shuffles on his feet and pays attention to the ground.

"Why, what's up?" Sam shrugs his shoulders.

"Some legal issues, or something."

"Legal issues, how? What issues are you talking about?" He waits for an answer. "Sam?"

"Mr. Winchester, Mr. Novak, over here, please." A cop calls from behind a desk.

"Shit, Sam wait over there while we sort this out."

A woman motions Dean and Castiel into her an interrogation room, it is designed like a small office but Dean has seen enough procedural cop shows to know the difference. He tries not to hunch into himself as he waits for the questions to start, better to avoid looking like he is guilty of something if he can. He straightens his back against the chair and spares a glance at Castiel who is doing the same. He has been quiet the whole time and it's strange to Dean to see him so unlike the man behind the floral wallpaper. He turns back to the woman as he starts opening a notepad and sets a pen down.

"You're Sam's brother?" She asks, smiling to lighten the mood but Dean is not feeling it.

"Yeah, you are?"

"I'm Jody Mills." She sits back and clicks the pen a few times. "You can relax, you're not on trial here and if all goes well, you never will be." She smiles again.

"Is there any reason I need to be here?" Castiel asks. He smiles falls and she begins pulling up paper work.

"You're John Winchester's friend? And you his son?" She points to them both. They nod, even though Castiel has never met John. Dean wonders if he got another drunken disorderly and they need him to pick him up again. Maybe they found Sam alone and need to track him down to slap him with a jail sentence for being a bad father. None of these scenarios sit well with Dean, he may hate the bastard sometimes but Sam still needs him.

"This may be tough to hear," she starts. The rest of her words are white noise to Dean and he picks up on, a town over, and obvious accident. He stares at the papers in front of him but the words are blurring together, then there is a gasp and a hand on his shoulder, someone coaxing him to breathe.

When he comes back to earth, he has the papers clutched in his hand and he is on the floor now. What is weird is there are tears dripping down his face but he hardly remembers crying, barely believes it as tears continues to streak down his cheeks. He can hear his own voice echoing in the small room but the words sound foreign to him, like he forgot to speak English in the last few moments. He hardly remembers the last few moments. What happened to John? Who was in an accident?

Castiel is next to him, concern on his face and a hand keeping him steady. His knees burn so he must have fallen out of his chair onto them but he cannot think of how. He tries to hold the papers steady in his hands so he can read them, Castiel seems to notice as he slowly pulls them out of Dean's hand and holds them still. His palms rubs down his back and he might be whispering but Dean stopped hearing everything moments ago. He wipes the tears from his eyes so he can see the document without the blur.

The first lines are information, John's information. Anything his license would reveal is there. Dean takes a deep breath as he continues to read the information, there are so many pages and Dean cannot figure out which one to turn to. Finally, Jody is back and flips to the final page where it should read a discharge statement but there is none, only the simple word _deceased _on the bottom line. Dean reads the statement a few times not really comprehending them until he gives up on the document completely. He slumps back against the chair and hates the way metal sounds scraping against linoleum. Castiel's hand steadies him again until he can maneuver his body behind him and Dean can settle against the man's body.

"No," he says. A statement he realizes he has been repeating for the last few minutes, echoing back at him, teasing him because he knows it is true, has to be if he is in a police station. Maybe they got the wrong person, or this is some elaborate prank.

He refuses to believe the evidence in front of his eyes. But it's true, has to be because there is documents proving it, just like Dad showed him after Mary passed away and he refused to believe it then. John is dead. Some accident that examiners are still processing the details of, all it reads is what they examined when he was wheeled in. Dean begins to wonder how long it has been because he has not talked to Sam in about two weeks and these papers look a little older than that. A date is stamped somewhere but Dean cannot bother to find it.

"How long?" His voice is a whisper, barely loud enough to bounce off the walls.

"A few weeks, that's when we found him." She takes a moment to pull the paper work away and return it to her folder. "Initially, we thought he was just a guy who had an accident, so no one was notified. Then, Sam, your brother, came in to the hospital to have his cast removed. Someone recognized the name Winchester, after he was asked if he knew John, he identified the body. After that he was brought here." She pauses to flip through her notepad.

"When asked why he did not report a suspected missing report sooner he stated that John was often gone. Is that true?" Dean nods and looks at Castiel who nods when prompted.

"He didn't have any information for John's whereabouts in the last few weeks, do you?" Dean shakes his head.

"No, I haven't seen him since," since he got kicked out. "Weeks."

"Did John have enemies?"

"I thought you said it was an accident."

"We just need to be sure."

"No, not that I knew of. He was quiet, kept to himself mostly." But John was a drunk. "He uh, drank a lot, though." She nods as if she knows.

"He died with alcohol in his system." She clears he throat and turns another page.

"So you wouldn't know what John did while he was away, then?" Dean shakes his head. It is still a mystery him what John did. He said he worked but Dean's been chalking that up as a lie for weeks now, some cover story for what he really does.

"There's a matter of you and Sam that we need to discuss." Shit, Dean thinks he knows where she is going next.

"Sam in a minor, and while you will be turning eighteen in January." She checks her documents to be sure. They must have been printing it while he and Castiel waited. "Sam won't be for another four years. Likely scenario, he'll be placed in the foster care system, maybe adopted, perhaps not. At eighteen he will be released as an adult."

"What about family, can he stay with family?" Dean is not going to let Sam stay with some shit family that will only use him for government checks and whatever crazy stuff they are in to.

"You're still a minor." She says, closing her notebook.

"What about family friends?" Castiel's voice would have Dean on his ass if he was not already. Is Cas really offering?

"That would require extensive paper work, frequent check from social services and a trial." She clicks her pen. "It's going to cost a lot and there is always the chance you will not be able to keep them both if the routine checks go bad. Are you sure this is something you want to do?" He opens his mouth but she cuts him off. "Talk about it first, talk to a good lawyer first. Trust me, messing with social services is a whole mess you might not want to get into. As much as the boys may be family to you, it will require copious hours of work just to finalize it."

He nods. "We'll talk about it."

Dean, Castiel and Sam are sitting in a booth at the closest diner to the police station, some little place with a half working stereo that plays old hits on repeat. Cops urged them to stay close in case they need to speak to them again. Castiel will need to return when he makes a decision, Dean and Sam will be staying if he comes to his senses. Not that Dean is repelled by the idea of living with Castiel, he does already and he enjoys his time there, but he is unsure Castiel is making the right decision. Having two bratty teenagers living in his house means Castiel will have a hard time inviting guests, or explaining the matter to his family, or even dating.

Dean stirs whipped topping into his hot chocolate and tries not to think about it too much. Sam is still shaken up, he's still shaking, hands unsteady as he brings the mug to his lips. When the drink threatens to spill, he gives up and places the drink back onto the table. Next to him, Sam is taking small sips of his own drink, huffing when the steam burns his lips and Dean wants to laugh, but today is one of those days where you swallow giggles. So, Dean shuts his mouth and keeps a watchful eye on Sam in case he realizes he is not okay.

Cas is sitting quietly, stirring creamer into his coffee. This has been a long night for all of them and Dean regrets not getting coffee himself. Judging how dark it is and how quiet the 24-hour diner is he can guess the time is passed midnight. He leans back in the booth and scoots a few inches closer to Sam. The air vibrates around then and he can feel Sam's worry. He does what Castiel did earlier, reaches out a hand to pat Sam's back, hopes it aids and breaks the tension. Sam seems to relax a little, at least he is not huddled over his mug anymore.

"We should discuss this before a foster family calls with an offer," Castiel says, almost shy as he playing with the steam around the lip of his mug. Dean nods.

"You know I got no problem staying with you. Sammy's the one who decides." He turns to face his brother. Sam shrugs and pushes his mug away.

"I have to pee." Dean sighs. Since they were kids they had code words and phrases, words that would send an alarm to Dean that Sam's in trouble, or that Dean needs to leave the house or Dad's drunk so be quiet. This one means Sam wants to talk in private so Dean pushes his mug away and walks towards the bathroom.

"I'm gonna hit the can too, be right back."

He takes the short walk to the diner's bathroom with Sam heavy on his heels. Only when the door is shut and Dean's sure no one is in the bathroom does he lean against the sinks, crossing his arms over his chest.

"What's up?"

"What's up? Dean, I hardly know anything about this Cas guy except that you've been staying with him for almost a month now. Dad died and you want me to stay with the guy that makes you do whatever for money." Dean blanches at the phrasing and rubs at his forehead.

"Yeah, I know but trust me he's our best option right now. A few months from now I'll be turning eighteen, I'll save up so money try to get you in my care and if it all works out I'll move us out."

"I don't know if I trust this guy Dean. I mean, you guys met, how? I'm not stupid, I see the bruises on your neck you keep trying to hide and the way you walk funny something, which is all I need to know about that. I can put it together and if that's what you've been doing there then I'm not sure I'm comfortable around him."

Dean nods, he knew this was going to be an issue.

"Yeah, I know. But you trust me right? I'm not going to let him touch you. Cas is…not like the others." Dean fiddles with the edge of his sweater, Castiel's sweater. "It was different than…" he waves his hand. "Besides things have sort of changed recently, I dunno, he's alright though."

"Alright?"

"Good enough. I'm not letting you get lost in the system, Sam. Not on my watch. Who knows what hellhole they'll stick you in and I'm probably not gonna know. If I get stuck there too, they'll split us like they do other families and I can't deal with that Sammy." Dean feels like he's begging now but he needs Sam to understand why he just needs to do this, needs to let Dean take care of this his way. The need for Sam to listen burns in his throat so much he thinks he might choke.

"Just, please Sam, let's just go with this for now. You can finish high school here if it works out and you'll still be able to visit your friends, even call them 'cause Cas has a phone. He has a car too, no more walking to school. Think about it Sammy, just please." Sam crosses his arms over his chest and takes a step back, Dean thinks he lost.

"Fine." He nods. "If you think it'll work." Dean nods again.

Castiel is ordering a second coffee when Sam and Dean slide back into their side of the booth. He eyes them cautiously as he pours creamer into his coffee and stirs it slowly. He drops his spoon on a napkin and slides menus to Sam and Dean. The both shake their heads and slide them back.

"I already ordered something," he sounds guilty as he says it.

"That's fine, we never finished cooking so go for it." Sam looks at him with disbelief for a moment before pulling the menu back and looking through a list of sides, small dishes that are easy to digest after learning your dad died. Dean opens his but barely looks at the words.

"It's okay,' Dean says. "We're okay staying with you for now."

"For now?"

"Until I turn eighteen and become Sam's guardian." Cas nods.

"Sounds good."

Castiel returns to the police station to talk to officer Mills, Dean and Sam are supposed to wait with another officer. This one is burly, like a lumberjack and his smile makes him look like Santa. Sam keeps staring at him like if he wiggles his nose one more time presents will appear from the heavens. They are both having a tough time maintaining composure when the man gives a hearty laugh that really completes the image. The man gives them a glance and they both pull blank faces, staring at the ceiling.

Dean finds it weird that they are both so stable right now, but he blames it on exhaustion and too much stress making them numb. In a few days, the initial shock will wear off and they will both be complete wrecks. His stunt in the office earlier is just the beginning he thinks, once he wakes up with Sam in Castiel's home, no Dad to call, no Mom to make them breakfast, he knows he will shatter. Maybe at the funeral when they sink Dad into the ground he will lose it again and Castiel will have to put them both together. He feels guilty because Castiel is always fixing him.

An hour or two passes before Castiel marches out of the office with a few folders and motions for Sam and Dean to come inside the office. Dean nudges Sam and they both head to the office with hopes that Castiel will be taking care of them. Dean dislikes that phrase, they all know Dean will be the one caring for Sam no matter what, Cas can make the food but Dean's going to work for his money to buy Sam new clothes and push him through school. They pass by Castiel into the office and he follows after.

"These are the conditions for staying with Castiel, please sign on the bottom." She looks at Castiel. "I'll need the documents and proof of enrollment by next week." He nods and drops a few papers in front of Dean and Sam. Dean reads the document and so far so good, Sam has to stay in school, be on time and not miss days. Castiel needs to fill out the forms he has which Dean is sure he will. They have until Sam finishes this year of high school until the paper work will be approved, if Castiel makes the qualifications, or Dean will have to say his goodbye until Sam is eighteen. The last bit is what trips him up, Dean has to go back to school and finish his final year.

"I'm old enough to drop out, why do I have to go back?" Jody rolls her eyes.

"That wasn't me who decided that one. In fact, I said it was okay since you're over the dropout age, but he used it as leverage."

"I think you should get your education." Castiel admits. "Maybe decide what you want to do in college."

"If I go," Dean mutters before signing his name on the line. When he looks back at Castiel, his eyes are stern. "I guess I'll go?" He nods and Dean exhales. Great, now he has to go back to high school and attend college if he graduates.

"If you don't want to go back to your previous school, you can go to the one near me. Sam can stay in his if he wants." They both nod and Dean exhales in relief. Now he will not have to deal with Crowley or any of the other douche bags at that school.

It is another few hours of paperwork and signing forms, approving information with others before everyone can return to Castiel's. The sun is already peaking over the clouds and Castiel has work in a couple hours. Dean feels bad that he got him mixed up in his mess and now has to care for him and Sam. Castiel has been okay with it so far and Dean keeps promising to move out as soon as he can.

The first time Sam walks into Castiel's house is a lot like Dean's, he pauses at the entrance to the kitchen and looks between Castiel and Dean for assurance that this is not a sick joke. He swallows thickly when Dean gives a small shake of his head. Sam adjusts the strap of his bag and takes in the rest of the scenery. The cookies Dean and Castiel were about to make are still sitting on top of the oven and both of their aprons are thrown over a chair. Dean would be embarrassed but tonight is not the night to be. Instead, he guides Sam through the dining room, they can take the little tour tomorrow.

Sam has school in a few hours but they are all too tired for that, he thinks it would be best if Sam just slept in tonight and went back on Monday. His friends will take notes for him like they always do. The bed in Dean's room is only big enough for one so he figures he can sleep in Castiel's room until they get another one. He starts guiding Sam up the steps when Castiel stops them.

"I have a second spare room, if you don't want to have to share." Dean nods.

"Sounds good." He will be sleeping alone then, he supposes.

He guides Sam into the room and flicks on the light. He points at the bathroom and the closet, he is sure Sam will want to make use of it once he is settled. Dean's duffle is still tucked under the bed and a few of his dirty clothes, some polos, maybe one of Castiel's sweaters is on the floor. He shuffles them aside to make a clear path to the bed. When Sam settles all of his things, two duffle bags and a backpack, Dean sits at the edge of the bed.

"You gonna be okay by yourself?" Sam takes a moment to think, taking his shoes off and placing them by his bed.

"Would you mind staying in here? Just tonight."

"Yeah, I'll see if Cas has any extra blankets and a pillow I can borrow. Be right back." He grips Sam's shoulder gently, some physical form of reassurance, before he walks down the narrow staircase.

Castiel's light is one, which means he is preparing either to go to work or to sleep. Dean takes the opportunity to knock on his door and waits for the sound of shuffling, then the door is opened. Castiel is in his pajamas and looks about as worn down as Dean feels. He feels guilty that Castiel is missing work because of him and promises to clean the house extra good this week. Castiel opens the door a little for Dean to enter.

"I just need some blankets, Sam wants me to sleep with him tonight."

"Of course," Castiel moves to open a closet but Dean stops him before he can.

"Hey, I uh, thanks for all that you did today." He rubs the back of his neck and avoids eye contact. Castiel's hand cups his jaw and turns his head so they are looking at each other.

"You're welcome." He runs his hand through Dean's hair and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. Dean relaxes minutely.

"Just so we're clear though, Sammy's my little brother and I'll do anything to protect him. We may be pals and all, but you touch one hair on his head and I'll end you." He tries to keep his voice firm to make his point clear.

"We're clear." He sounds sincere enough for Dean to let him pass by towards the closet.

Sam cries for the next few weeks, never in public and tries to avoid it when Dean is around. Dean can hear him when he is in the bathroom or when he sleeps on his floor at night. He is taking it rough, blames himself for not paying attention to how long Dad was gone, for not telling Dean sooner. He goes to school, comes home, does his homework when Dean reminds him to and goes to bed. Dean would be worried but Sam has always been this way, crying excluded. His little brother is still trying though, so Dean thinks that is good. Eventually, Sam returns to his normal cheerful self, even if he does look sad at times, Dean's glad he is not blaming himself for everything anymore.

A week after they moved back, Castiel enrolled Dean into a school close to his house. He has a bunch of work to make up but Sam and Castiel are helping him. Sam holds little study sessions for them and Castiel is surprisingly good with math, so he helps when he can. He hates to think about applying to college, maybe Castiel will let him take a year off or two until he figures out what he actually wants to do with his life. Castiel keeps laying out brochures for Dean to read with different specialties, the ones Sam thinks he is most interested in are all underlined and Dean feels pressured to make a decision. He progressively throws the worst ones away, jobs like teaching or anything with math and science are out of the question for him.

Castiel tries to stay out of the way for the most part. He cooks breakfast, lunch and dinner, insisting Dean and Sam eat what he serves. Sam is way too excited about the healthy snack options and Dean still has to fight himself to eat the carrot sticks most days. Dean still does his chores when he gets out of school, Castiel lessens his load only making him do necessary things like sweep or wash dishes. Sam starts helping at some point, taking over bathroom duty and cleaning the living room since no one really uses it. Dean would mind but he likes that he finishes his chores sooner now.

Some nights Dean will sneak into Castiel's room. He tries to keep quiet about it with Sam being so close, it makes it difficult for them to do too much and Dean has to be quieter now. Castiel pays them both for chores now, no more sleeping with him because he feels like he needs to. No, Dean likes it now. Most nights he just goes into the man's room so that he can curl in close and feel his arms around him, a blanket shielding him from the problems of the world. Some nights he will cry and scream because life is unfair and he just wanted to say goodbye. Other nights, Dean wants Castiel to make him forget, whether he ties him up or spanks him raw, Dean loves getting lost in it. Castiel keeps him gagged with a tie so Sam can never hear.

When Dean's eighteenth birthday rolls around everyone is so busy, Cas talking to his lawyer, Sam with school, Dean trying to graduate high school. He is surprised when they walk into the kitchen, Castiel has a cake sitting on the kitchen table, eighteen candles lined around the edge, and Dean's name written in icing. He is about to dip his finger in the icing around the edge when Castiel walks in and slaps his hand away.

"Did you make this?"

"Yes, and I prefer you don't ruin it for all of us." He pulls out a lighter and lights the candles.

"Don't you have work today."

"I got out early because I needed to speak with my lawyer again."

"Everything okay there?" A slight panic creeps up in Dean because he does not want to think about Sam taken away on his birthday.

"Good, actually." He lights a few more candles and scoots the cake towards Dean. "My trial is set up in a month, if I win, which my lawyer assures me I should since I'm not a criminal, and neither of you appear neglected, Sam can stay here for as long as he likes. You too." He lights the final candle.

"Make a wish."

"Don't need to." Dean blows the candles out and feels Sam's arm around his shoulder

"This is great."

"Tell me about it." He dips his finger into the edge of the cake and licks it into his mouth before Castiel can turn around.

"Dean." Castiel complains as he lines up a few plates. Dean knows he is getting punished tonight.


End file.
